Chasing Life
by Blaze6
Summary: One of Sara's old cases won't leave her alone. G/S
1. Default Chapter

Title: Chasing Life  
  
Author: Blaze  
  
Summary: One of Sara's old cases won't leave her alone. G/S.  
  
Spoilers: Varied. I'd say a bit of seasons one and two, to be safe.  
  
Rating: I'd say R, for some violence and language. The rating might be high, but better that than too low. G  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine, never have been and never will be. Some characters, however, are not owned by CBS, the producers of CSI and related affiliates, and therefore belong to me. But please don't sue me for borrowing the ones that aren't mine. Any resemblance to songs, other TV shows, people, etc., is unintentional and accidental. Please don't sue me for that either.  
  
Author's Notes: Wow, it's only taken me forever to get this posted, considering I finished it a month ago. Eh. This was the first fic I wrote, keep that in mind if it sucks. And I'd love to say what kind of evil CSI fanfic offense I've commited, but it would spoil the story. Oh, and for those who aren't of the Geek Love persuasion.you might want to back out now. Grissom and Sara, well, it gets pretty serious. Thank you to Devanie, who claimed she liked it and that it doesn't suck. I don't believe you, but.okay. G  
  
Feedback welcome, but nothing mean. And no one likes a bad review, so if you don't like it, keep it to yourself. Thank you.  
  
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"Hey, Grissom," Nick Stokes said in greeting as he walked into the conference-slash-break room. It was the beginning of shift, the team should have been slowly filtering in for assignments, but Gil Grissom was the only other member in the room.  
  
A grunt was his boss's only reply. The salt-and-pepper-haired entomologist was scrutinizing a file, crime scene photos were laid out over the table.  
  
"Sara said you wanted to talk to me?" Nick had run into a fuming Sara Sidle in the locker room, the tall brunette had spit out the request as she had angrily thrown her jacket into her locker. "She said something about you taking her off a case."  
  
"Yeah," Grissom said. "Come take a look at these."  
  
Nick crossed the room to stand at Grissom's side, looking at each photograph in turn, his mind running with possibilities, solutions to the puzzle before him. The crime seemed routine, a murder, female positioned on her back, face turned away. Most of the pictures of her did not show the woman's face or back, although there were shots of her on a steel morgue table.  
  
"I don't get it, Gris, why'd you take Sara off of this?" He knew the instant the words left his mouth there would be repercussions, Grissom did not take people not thinking well. But to his surprise, there was no comment from the man about his statement.  
  
"Look at her face." Grissom slid a picture of the woman's face onto the others. "Who does she remind you of?"  
  
The woman, a brunette, reminded him strongly of Sara, and he said so. "That's why you took her off, right?"  
  
"That's part of it." Another photo was tossed on the table, this of the woman's back, where the killer had carved neatly, 'You're next, S.'  
  
" 'S' as in 'Sara'?"  
  
"There's a letter, too. I didn't let her read it, but she knows what it'll say."  
  
"How?"  
  
"When she was working in San Francisco, there was a case like this. Identical. She worked it-"  
  
"Hey, Grissom, what'd you do to Sara?" Warrick Brown interrupted.  
  
Grissom sighed. "Took her off this case."  
  
Warrick laughed. "You're not dead yet?"  
  
Before he had a chance to answer, Catherine Willows, the other female CSI, walked in, saying, "I don't know what Sara's problem is, but damn, she's angry!"  
  
"Grissom took her off a case," Nick explained.  
  
"Oh, I see," she said, looking over her friend and boss. "You don't have a mark on you. She didn't kick your ass?"  
  
"No," Grissom forced out tightly.  
  
"Huh. I always imagined her beating you up if you took her off a case."  
  
"Well, she didn't."  
  
"I can't believe you think about that!" Warrick teased.  
  
"I don't, I'm just saying-"  
  
The light-hearted teasing was overcome by the tension that came as Sara walked in the room. In an instant, the air grew taut with anger, it was like a storm had rolled over the room. Catherine and Warrick fell silent. With Nick, they turned towards Grissom to see his reaction, which was to look stoically at the brunette. Nick got the feeling there was more to this case than Grissom had told him, something personal, because Sara was looking at their supervisor with fury and hatred in her eyes. He had never seen her look at anyone like that, and he knew, just as Warrick and Catherine were quickly discovering themselves, that this was not just about taking her off the case, that there was something huge that Grissom was keeping from them, that the shit was hitting the fan, and they could do nothing but stand back and watch.  
  
"I thought I told you to go home." Grissom's voice cut through the silence, but his sentence added to the already unbearable tension.  
  
"I'm not going anywhere," she replied, barely holding in her anger. "I'm working. I have a case."  
  
They had locked eyes, had made the others invisible. Her eyes were so furious Nick half expected that their color had changed from brown to red- hot. "Did something new come in?" Grissom asked.  
  
"No, it's old. One that got away." She struggled to sound calm.  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"Yes. I need the files," she requested tightly.  
  
"I don't have them."  
  
"What are those?" she snapped, pointing at the papers and photos stretched across the table. "Vacation pictures?"  
  
"These are not from your case," he said, stressing 'your.'  
  
Her mouth tightened. "They are from my case, Grissom! I'm working it!"  
  
"This is not your case, Sara!" he roared. "You are not working this case."  
  
"I don't believe you!" she exclaimed. "I've worked this since day one! It's my case!"  
  
"It's my case, Sara. I told you before. You're off the case. End of story."  
  
"You can't just take me off this case, Grissom!"  
  
"I am your supervisor, I can take you off any case I want."  
  
"Not this one, Grissom, not where I'm the only one who knows what this guy's all about!"  
  
"You are not working this case, Sara!" he exploded. "You are not working this case, do you understand?" he repeated, more controlled.  
  
"You son of a bitch, you can't!" She was near tears in rage. "You can't!"  
  
"Don't make me suspend you, Sara, I don't want to do that," he warned.  
  
"Then stop this damn protection kick, Grissom, I'm old enough to take care of myself, if you haven't noticed."  
  
"Do you want to be killed, Sara? You want to spend weeks suffering? Because if you'd like to, he's ready, Sara. 'You're next, S.' He's after you, ready to cut you up, ready to have the time of his life mutilating your stubborn." He could not finish, his own anger clouding his rationale. Taking a deep breath, he stared back into her stormy brown eyes and continued. "He left you a note, telling you exactly what he has planned for you, so forgive me if I don't want him to do all the things he wants to do to you. Forgive me if I'd like to make sure he never comes near you."  
  
"If you want all of that, you have to let me work this case, I know what he's thinking, I know what he'll do next, I know what the evidence means. Please, Grissom," she begged.  
  
He shook his head, closing his eyes. "No."  
  
Her jaw set, narrowed eyes flaring in fury, she replied, "Well, then fuck you, Grissom," and stalked out of the room.  
  
He sat heavily into his chair and watched her go, sighing, then turned to the others. They stood, shocked into silence, and waited for his next words. "Am I wrong?" Grissom asked. "Am I wrong to want to make sure nothing happens to her?"  
  
One by one, Catherine, Warrick, and Nick shook their heads. "I'll go talk to her," Catherine offered.  
  
She found Sara slumped against the locker room wall, gazing blankly at the lockers opposite, her brown hair curled around her face, obscuring some of her features. As Catherine came in, Sara made to jump up, but she settled down when she saw who it was. Catherine sat down on the bench in front of Sara, who turned her head away from the other woman. They sat in silence for a minute, then Catherine spoke. "He's worried about you."  
  
Sara laughed, short and quiet, and asked, "Did he send you after me?"  
  
"No, I came on my own free will."  
  
"Oh, lucky you, you haven't had yours stolen yet," Sara snapped.  
  
"He's worried about you," the older woman repeated. "He's trying to protect you."  
  
"Yeah, well, tell him I don't need it." She turned to meet Catherine's eyes, a rekindled fire in her eyes.  
  
Something in the younger woman's attitude made Catherine snap. "What? You're invincible? Nothing's going to happen because you know how to process this case?"  
  
"Back off, Catherine!"  
  
"Look, I don't know what this case is about, but Grissom is trying to help you, Sara. He's trying to be your friend."  
  
"How is he going to protect me? He's my friend so no one's going to hurt me? He's no more invincible than I am!"  
  
"You're just hurting yourself, Sara. The more you push him away, the more you push us away, the worse it's going to get."  
  
"You can't protect me, none of you can. If you'd seen what he's done to those girls." Her eyes welled up with tears, and she swiped them away quickly. "If you had seen what he did to them, you'd know."  
  
Neither woman spoke as tears made damp tracks down Sara's face, as she let her fear and hurt course down her face, as her crying stopped nearly as suddenly as it began. Sara wiped her face clean with both hands, then murmured, "This never happened, right?"  
  
"What?" Catherine replied with a small smile; she recognized the desire to save face, to appear strong. It was blasphemous to cry in Sara's world, let alone in front of a colleague. "C'mon, let's go. You have to talk to Grissom."  
  
Sara steeled herself quickly, and as she pulled herself up, responded quietly, "Yeah." 


	2. chapter 2

"So what's your big plan?"  
  
Grissom jumped up quickly at the sound of her voice, tried not to look too pleased that she had come back. "Uh, I was thinking. . . um, I was offered a place on a seminar tour, cross-country, I'd turned it down, but if I make a few phone calls, I can have my spot back, and we could both go. You'd be my assistant, if you don't mind?" He chastised himself for appearing too eager.  
  
"That's fine. I'm going to call the San Francisco Crime Lab, try to get the case files. The two CSI's I worked with on the case might want to fly out."  
  
"Good, I was just going to ask."  
  
Sara smiled slightly. "Okay."  
  
"Here," he said, pushing the phone towards her.  
  
--------  
  
"He's definitely nervous," Warrick confirmed.  
  
"Oh, yeah," Nick agreed.  
  
"Quiet, both of you, I want to hear what's happening," Catherine whispered. They were listening to the proceedings from just outside Grissom's office door. It was juvenile and immature, but it really was fun to eavesdrop. The three investigators were listening intently, not focusing on their surroundings.  
  
"What's going on?" The question, hissed into Catherine's ear, made them jump and turn around to face a grinning Greg Sanders.  
  
"Damn it, Greg!" Nick screeched, his face pasty. He hated to be snuck up on.  
  
"Quiet!" Warrick and Catherine hissed to Nick.  
  
"Sorry. Whoa!" The door opened from behind them, making Nick and Warrick fall into the office. They looked up on an amused Sara, standing by Grissom's desk, ear glued to the phone, and a not so amused Grissom hovering over them.  
  
"Hi, Grissom." Nick stuttered, the guilty look on his face matching the faces of Catherine and Warrick; Greg had sprinted off towards the DNA lab. "We were, uh."  
  
"Eavesdropping?" Grissom inquired.  
  
"No, no, we were, um."  
  
"Eavesdropping," Warrick conceded.  
  
Nick shot him a dirty look, and muttered, "Teacher's pet."  
  
Sara, who had hung up the phone, said, "Gris, the files are on their way. Ari and Kate are coming with them."  
  
"Ari and Kate?" Catherine asked, slightly territorially.  
  
"Bishop and Lamont, respectively. CSI's out of San Francisco," Grissom said. "They're good."  
  
"They're incredible," Sara corrected. "Ari's the man, he's great. He can pick out an individual fiber of any color that doesn't match the test sample of nearly the same color like nothing I've ever seen. Say your shirt's the sample, Warrick. If you had one millimeter of a fiber that's one shade off of that blue on your shirt, Ari'd see it where everyone else would need a comparison 'scope to find it."  
  
"Interesting," Warrick said.  
  
"What about this Kate?" asked Nick, a little eagerly.  
  
Sara smiled. "Whoa, boy, she's married. She puts things together. Give her all the evidence, and she'll tell you where it happened and exactly how. Nine times out of ten, she matches what the suspect says, to the letter, on details."  
  
"When will they be here?"  
  
"Tomorrow."  
  
----------  
  
A red-haired man knocked softly on the wall of the layout room, where Catherine sat reviewing evidence. She turned; the man was carrying a large file, and was followed closely by another stranger, a short blond. "Hi," the man said. "You're Catherine Willows?"  
  
"Let me guess, Ari Bishop and Kate Lamont?" Both nodded. "Come in, sit down," she said, gesturing to the chairs.  
  
"Thanks," Kate said. "What are you working on?"  
  
"The reason you're out here," Catherine said.  
  
"Mind if I take a look?" Ari asked, picking up a report before she could say anything. "You're not finding anything more than we did, fibers are inconclusive, the soil that doesn't match the local stuff came back unknown.Where's Sara?"  
  
"And Grissom?" Kate added.  
  
Catherine bristled. When Sara had first come to Las Vegas, Catherine had thought that the younger woman was abrasive, that it was just her, but now it seemed that the entire San Francisco Crime Lab staff was like that. "On a plane to Boulder," she choked out. "I'm in charge while they're gone, okay?" 


	3. chapter 3

"I just want you to know I'm still mad at you," Sara said as they flew to Colorado, the first stop on their tour.  
  
"That's fair," he replied absently.  
  
Sara flashed a grin at him, eyes shining. "You're so rational," she teased.  
  
"Being rational makes me a good scientist." He'd completely missed the tone of her voice, as he was absorbed in the information he was going to present.  
  
She laughed, and grabbed for the papers. Grissom glared at her as she snatched them away from under his nose. Sara looked him in the eye, and advised, "Don't prepare so much."  
  
"I'm just supposed to get up there and lecture?"  
  
"You know the seminar where we met?" At his nod, she continued, "What impressed me the most about you, and I'm saying this completely honestly, is that you didn't act like you'd prepared much of anything. You got up there and didn't read off of a script, you didn't have notes, you had no paper. You taught that group like you teach Warrick, Nicky, and me. And I really liked it."  
  
"Honest?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You want to know the truth?" Grissom motioned for her to lean forward, she did so eagerly. "I'd prepared especially hard for you Harvard kids." And with that, he grabbed the papers back, and returned to studying them.  
  
She sat back hard in her seat, staring up at the ceiling, laughing. "God, I love you."  
  
He froze, snapped his head up to look at her, bewilderment written all over his features. "What did you say?" he asked guardedly.  
  
Sara's eyes were closed, a smile playing on her lips. "I said I love you." She left it at that, the way he'd left a beauty comment floating on the frozen air of a hockey rink.  
  
Grissom stared at her, mouth gaping. He didn't move until a flight attendant asked, "Warm pretzel, sir?"  
  
-----------  
  
At the hotel later that day, he held on to the key cards until they were in front of a standard hotel door. "Here," Grissom said, handing her a card, using his to enter the room. She glanced at it, then back at the door he'd just gone through, noting the numbers were the same, then followed him inside.  
  
"Grissom!"  
  
"What?" he said, putting his suitcase down.  
  
"We're sharing a room?" Sara dropped her bags next to one of the two beds in the room. He sighed. "I knew you were going to complain."  
  
"I. . .I'm not complaining, I'm just curious."  
  
"Yes, we are sharing a room. Until this is over."  
  
"Why?" she asked petulantly, sitting down heavily on the bed.  
  
Grissom sighed again. She was not going to like this one bit. "It's safer if I know where you are all the time."  
  
Sara rolled her eyes. "You're not going to follow me everywhere, are you?"  
  
He nodded. "Everywhere."  
  
"You are not coming in the bathroom with me, you understand?" He grinned, knowing she didn't like it, but she'd accepted it.  
  
"Dinner?" Grissom asked. "I'm sure you're hungry."  
  
"Yeah," she said grudgingly.  
  
-----------  
  
He took her to an out-of-the-way, small Italian restaurant that had the best pasta in the country, a place he always went to when he was in Boulder. It was mostly unknown, and was not crowded. A candle was lit at every table, occupied or not, which lent flickering light to the dark main room. "It's not dark so you can't see the food, it's dark so you can concentrate on the food," he explained to her. And who you're with, he added silently.  
  
Grissom realized, as she was chowing down on garlic bread and making snide comments about how many mints she was going to need, just how beautiful she was. Of course he'd noticed before, but she was truly radiant in this light. It didn't matter that she was talking with her mouth full, she could pull off anything and still be beautiful. He had known many very attractive women in his life, Catherine included, but none who had ever caught him like Sara did. Her statement on the plane had startled him, it seemed like it had come out of nowhere, but now that he thought about it, she'd made it pretty clear. Question now: was he in love with her? Grissom realized that he had never thought about loving Sara, but he'd never thought about not loving her. If it wasn't love he felt for Sara, than what was it? He went through the few appropriate questions that applied to being in love. Was he always wanting to work with her? Yes. Did he want to be close to her? Yes. Did he get upset at the idea of Sara and another man? Last time Sara was with another guy, it was that EMT wuss Hank, and Grissom could hardly look at her when she came back from her date with the guy. All he could think about was she'd dressed up for Hank, Hank, who had probably kissed her. . . Grissom felt himself getting angry all over again, so. . . Yes, a thousand times, yes.  
  
He contemplated this for a few moments, watching her.  
  
"Grissom? Hello?" Sara waved her hand in front of his face. He snapped to attention, meeting her eyes, with a "Sorry."  
  
"What's going on?" she asked. "You've been staring at me for, like, five minutes."  
  
"I. . ." He could not get the words out, and it didn't really matter, because as she was staring at him quizzically, the food arrived, large quantities of steaming pasta placed before them.  
  
"Oh, my God," Sara moaned after the first bite. "This. . . this is incredible, Grissom! Thank you for taking me here."  
  
He grinned at her as she wolfed down the pasta, twisting spaghetti around his own fork and placing in his mouth. It truly was the best Italian he'd ever had, and it was the first time he'd shared it with anyone.  
  
Twenty minutes later, she shoved the bowl away, leaning back in her chair and sighing contentedly. "Yummy," she stated uncharacteristically.  
  
"Glad you liked it," Grissom replied. "Dessert?"  
  
She nodded enthusiastically. "If it's anywhere near as good.You may have to drag me back to the hotel."  
  
Grissom motioned for the waiter, a young tan college man, who, at their request, recited the dessert menu. "Chocolate cake with your choice of peanut butter or vanilla ice cream; a very delicious Mud pie; strawberry cheesecake. . ."  
  
"No strawberries," Sara whispered to Grissom.  
  
"Too much like brain matter," he agreed.  
  
". . . And finally, we have wonderful, wonderful profiteroles with vanilla ice cream, drizzled in chocolate."  
  
"I'm all for the profiteroles," Sara said. "Want to share?"  
  
"We'll share the profiteroles," he told the waiter.  
  
"I love these," she told him as the waiter walked away. "My favorite dessert, hands down. My mom used to make them for my birthday."  
  
"They're perfect for sharing, if you're sharing with someone you love." They locked eyes, both half-smiling at his revelation. "I do love you, Sara. I may not always act like it, but I do."  
  
-----------  
  
"Hold still," she said, stopping him in the entryway of the hotel room. "You've got chocolate on your face."  
  
Grissom glanced down at her, she reached up and wiped it from his lower lip, then put her finger in her mouth and got rid of the offending chocolate. Sara winked at him. "All better."  
  
He could think of nothing to do but kiss her, so he did, a short and sweet blurring of the boundaries. She grinned at him as they separated. "Thanks," he said simply.  
  
"I didn't want you walking around looking like an idiot," she said, not mentioning she had let him get all the way from the restaurant to the hotel without saying anything.  
  
"Not just for that. For coming along, for letting me be the protective.man stereotype. For everything."  
  
Sara kissed him this time.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------------------- A/N: I forgot to put this in the headers, so here goes: Any medical and scientific inaccuracies are all mine. I'm not a doctor or a scientist. 


	4. chapter 4

A/N's: Sorry, forgot something else. Out of character-ness occurs. Oops.  
  
------------------------------  
  
I can kiss him any time I want, Sara realized, and the thought made her laugh. I can love him now, hold his hand. The realization made her feel giddy, and laughter again burbled from her.  
  
Grissom flicked his gaze away from the television to her face, wondering what was so funny about an unsolved triple murder. She wasn't giving any indication, and was now staring intently at the screen with a secretive smile on her face, so he shrugged to himself, pulling her a little closer, and placed a kiss on the top of her head.  
  
I had sex with Grissom. The thought had crossed her mind when he kissed her, and as it rolled through her awareness again, Sara dissolved into giggles. It was completely absurd, it couldn't be real. My god, I had sex with Grissom.  
  
He really didn't understand now. Why was she laughing at the line, "Luminol was used to determine the spray radius of the blood"? He could understand laughing at the narrator. . . there was definitely something strange about a Canadian in a television as the narrator of Secrets of Forensic Science, but it wasn't that funny. Sara had laughed herself away from him and off the bed, and was lying flat on her back on the rug giggling like a twelve-year-old. Grissom turned away from the forensics documentary to watch her. She was holding her sides, tears streaming down her face as she chortled. "You okay, Sara?" he asked.  
  
The sound of his voice did nothing to ease the giggles, in fact it made them worse. It was a strange laughing cycle: the instant she was under control, she would see him and the thought would cross her mind again, and she was gone.  
  
"I'm fine," she gasped, breathing hard as she regained control of herself. "I'm fine."  
  
"Want to tell me what was so funny?"  
  
There was no way she could look into those crystal blue eyes of his and tell him what had cracked her up, so Sara lay there for a minute collecting her thoughts. Finally, she got up.  
  
He watched her every move with complete attention, tracking her as she walked to the small refrigerator and removed a bottle of water, drinking half of it before replacing it and closing the door of the fridge. He watched her walk towards him with a predatory smile on her face, watched her lean down, lost track of who he was and what he was doing when she kissed him, long and hard, slow and sweet.  
  
"You taste like laughter," Grissom said as they seperated.  
  
--------------  
  
Georgia, two weeks later. Sara watched Grissom pacing through the lecture hall. It hadn't opened yet, and he was getting more and more nervous the closer it came to show time. "You have all the handouts?" he asked, back turned to her.  
  
"Ready to go," she said from her post at the door. It was her job to hand out the packets to the college students who walked in. And make comments at Gris during his presentation. He nodded and continued pacing. "Calm down, Gris. You'll be fine."  
  
"I. . ."  
  
"You'll be fine," she emphasized. "You always have been. You haven't messed up on any of these lectures."  
  
"Easy for you to say," he grumbled. "You're observing. And biased."  
  
"Of course it's easy for me to say. You've honestly been excellent. And I'm not just saying that because. . .you know."  
  
Grissom stopped pacing and came to stand in front of her. She reached up, caressed his cheek. "Stop worrying," Sara chided, and brushed her lips against his. "Now get up there; I can hear impatient science nerds outside."  
  
She opened the door as he reached the podium, handing papers entitled, 'Careers in Forensics' to the people entering. Some chuckled at what Sara had added underneath the title, 'How Forensics changed my life. . .and others!' Grissom had berated her good-naturedly when he saw what she had written, claiming, "it's not scientific enough." Her response: "You didn't have any fun in college, did you?"  
  
Grissom took a deep breath at the podium as people sat down. As Sara closed the door, he began. "Forensics is like magic, only more scientific, and more socially redeeming. You get to pull rabbits out of hats, and explain why. You play card tricks that wow a suspect into confession. And, my personal favorite, you get a beautiful assistant." He gave the crowd his charming half-smile, and laughter coursed through the room. Sara, leaning against the door frame, winked at him.  
  
His smile faded. "You don't always get a beautiful assistant, but I got lucky. The woman who handed you those packets you all are holding is Sara- "  
  
"Sexual harassment, Grissom!" she shouted, teasing, the students turned to look at her, some chuckling, some not. "Completely inappropriate, thank you very much. I thought you were a scientist!"  
  
He gave her an eyebrow, and continued as if he had not been interrupted. "As I was saying, that's Sara, the consummate CSI: science nerd, determined, incredible attention to detail. . ." Grissom winked at her as his tone shifted from complementary to bantering. ". . . obsessive, emotionally involved, maxing out on overtime, workaholic, wondering why she can't live at the lab full-time. . ."  
  
"Thanks a lot, Gris," she called.  
  
"In short, perfect for the job. Except for the emotionally involved part."  
  
"Hey, emotionally involved is better that emotionally stunted!"  
  
"Sara, get up here," he commanded. When she arrived, he stage-whispered, "You're ruining the flow of this lecture."  
  
"You left the mike on," she whispered back, and the students roared.  
  
"Anyway," he persisted, "about three of you in this room are going to be just like her one day. And for the rest of you, don't look so down. There are careers in this field for everyone. Forensic artistry and reconstruction for the artists; anthropology for those who are interested in bones; materials and chemical analysis for the chemists and physicists- commonly known as Trace; we have places for those interested in DNA, fingerprints, guns and other weapons. You're a psychology major, we have a department in forensics for you. And if you're all these things and not squeamish, you can be a CSI."  
  
-----------  
  
Sara backed her way into the bathroom, holding her inky hands up so she wouldn't get ink on the door. She thanked whoever designed the bathroom for having a swinging door; it was so much easier than trying to turn a knob with her palms.  
  
The row of sinks were gorgeous, sparkling clean. . .very fancy hotel. She didn't want to mess one up by washing off the fingerprint ink in the pristine porcelain, and seriously considered finding a janitor's work sink to clean her hands. But Grissom was waiting outside, so Sara sighed, looked into the mirror and apologized as she pushed soap onto her hands.  
  
She scrubbed each finger individually, wincing as the vanilla-scented soap made black streaks in the sink. The ink was coming off like magic; she had no idea what ink Grissom had used, but it was definitely washable.  
  
A toilet flushed, a man stepped out of a stall behind her, and Sara wondered for a second if she was in the wrong room. Scanning the room quickly, she noticed the tampon machine and realized the man was in the wrong room. She almost told him, but something about the man's demeanor kept her quiet.  
  
He was medium height and build, with dark hair and penetrating green eyes. His eyes were the only noticeable thing about him, she would have passed him on the street without a second thought. He looked like a regular guy, nothing special, the guy everyone would trust. . .  
  
With a flash she realized who he was. Grissom, Georgia wasn't far enough away, Sara thought, her heart sinking.  
  
"Hi," he said calmly.  
  
She swallowed hard. "Hi."  
  
"What're you doing?" he asked innocently.  
  
"Washing the blood-I mean, ink-off my hands," she said quickly, chastising herself for her slip.  
  
He chuckled softly, leaning against the stall. "I saw the lecture. Your performance was intense, Miss Sidle."  
  
She stared into the mirror. "Took you long enough to find me, didn't it?"  
  
"It wasn't a matter of when. I found you."  
  
-------------  
  
Grissom checked his watch again, impatient. What could possibly be taking her so long? She'd been in the bathroom for ten minutes, and it wasn't like Sara to waste ten minutes washing ink off her fingers-at most, it took her five minutes. He watched as another woman entered, waited another minute and watched the same woman come back out. It happened a dozen times before he stopped a redhead and asked, "Did you see a tall brunette in there?" and described Sara's clothes. The redhead shook her head, and, at his request, returned to the bathroom and looked for her. The woman came out and apologized, saying, "Your friend's not in there."  
  
He thanked her and dialed Sara's cell phone, which he discovered quickly she'd left with him in her jacket. His heart racing, Grissom did the one thing he could think of.  
  
He called Catherine.  
  
--------  
  
"Grissom, what's wrong?" Catherine asked.  
  
"Shit, he has her, I don't know how, I was with her all the time." The panic in his tone was amplified by the cell phone.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Sara, he has her, she's gone."  
  
"Are you serious?"  
  
"Yes. Let me talk to Ari or Kate. Shit, I don't know what to do." Grissom hardly ever swore, he had to be extremely upset to act like he was.  
  
"Calm down, you're no good like this. It'll be fine, I'm getting Ari and Kate right now." She put the phone down on the table. "ARI! KATE!"  
  
The two ran in, accompanied by Warrick and Nick. "What's going on?" Ari asked.  
  
"Grissom's on the phone, he has to talk to you about the case."  
  
"Why, what's wrong?" Warrick asked.  
  
"Sara. . .she's gone."  
  
"Grissom? Hi, this is Kate. I know." Kate had picked up the phone as soon as Catherine said Sara's name. "Okay, you have to calm down, I can't understand you. Was she ever alone? No? You're positive. What about-? Okay. Listen, he gets them alone. He's never gone after them when someone's in the room. It makes sense that he probably grabbed her there. Go cordon it off and. . ." She listened for a second, then, "I'll tell them," and hung up.  
  
"Hey," Catherine protested.  
  
"He hung up," Kate said defensively.  
  
"What'd he say?"  
  
"The only time Grissom left her alone was to go to the bathroom, that's probably when he took her. He's going to stay in Georgia until she's found."  
  
"We should go out there," Nick said, and Warrick agreed.  
  
"No," Catherine said. "I'm in charge right now, and we have to stay."  
  
The boys protested.  
  
"Look," Ari said, "she's right. One obsessed and upset friend is all Sara needs out there. We don't need to be in the way. Be glad it's Gil who's there."  
  
"Why? He's the least biased of all of us."  
  
"Because he knows her best. If she can leave anything behind, he'll know what it means. They've been staying together for the last two weeks, they've had a lot of time on their hands and they've probably worked something out just in case."  
  
"He didn't sound like they had," Catherine pointed out.  
  
"He didn't know where she'd been taken from," Kate said. "He knows now, he'll run every square inch of that bathroom looking for what she left behind." 


	5. chapter 5

He lets himself into the room, closes the door behind him and sighs. Every footstep is heavy, the weight of the day's event thick on his shoulders. His throat is burning, his heart aches, he wants nothing more than to sleep for the next decade. He removes his coat, tossing it carelessly on a chair; he collapses on the bed.  
  
Sara smiling, laughing, smelling like shampoo and peach and wearing his shirt.  
  
He swallows past the lump in his throat, tears rushing to his eyes.  
  
"I love you."  
  
If he could record it he'd play it over and over, if he could just record her every move. . .  
  
Nitpicking forensics documentaries, the feel of her hair on his cheek as she finished his crossword puzzle, the feel of her skin. . .  
  
A tear trails down his face, he does not wipe it away. The first time she cried in front of him, he had frozen, unable to do anything.  
  
"I wish I was like you, Grissom. I wish I didn't feel anything."  
  
There was her book with the king of diamonds as a bookmark, and her suitcase, and her pajamas. There were her clothes, her shoes. There was her toothbrush, her hairbrush, her shampoo. There was her CD player and her notebook and her pen and his heart.  
  
"Everything I need is in this room."  
  
Her life was in this room and she could not be gone, not when she'd forgotten all of this, she had to be coming back she had to, so much of her remained, she can't be gone, oh God no, please. . .  
  
They'd only had two weeks. . .  
  
She must have just left for a minute, she'd be right back, all her stuff was still here. . .  
  
Shaking, he reaches for the phone, dials her home number just to hear her voice, hangs up before it finishes, calls his message service and listens to his messages.  
  
"Hi, it's me, I'm just calling to tell you how much I love you." Time stamp tells him she called today, just before the lecture.  
  
His hands quaking, he calls one more number, Catherine picks up on the second ring.  
  
"Catherine, I miss her," he chokes. "I can see her, but I can't touch her. I hear her voice, but I can't see her. She's everywhere, but she's not here."  
  
He can hear Catherine on the other end, but he continues blindly, staring at the wall. "It's like she's just outside, and she's coming back any second, she has to be coming back. . ." He ends on a sob. "I don't know what to do, Catherine. She was just here!"  
  
"Gil," Catherine trails off, he can hear tears.  
  
"I can't sleep, every time I close my eyes I see her." There she is, right now, smiling, leaning in to kiss him. "I don't want to wake up alone, I can't."  
  
They both stay silent for a while, then he continues. "She can't be really gone, Catherine. She can't. There's her book, she hasn't finished her book. . ."  
  
"Grissom, stop it!"  
  
"There's her clothes and her stuff and her. . ."  
  
"Grissom, listen to me, you have to stop, right now. You can't help her like this," Catherine pleads.  
  
"I can't wake up and find her gone, it's going to kill me. I can't ever imagine waking up without her, Catherine. I can't wake up and find her gone. . ."  
  
"It'll be ok, you'll be fine, she'll be fine."  
  
"I miss her." 


	6. chapter 6

He sent up a quick prayer before he went in the house, asking whoever was up there to keep her alive. If she wasn't. . .he stopped that line of thought before it got much farther, he didn't want to think about the possibility that she was dead.  
  
Grissom entered the house with his gun drawn, he was beyond careful as he searched the main floor and upstairs room by room; the suspect appeared to be gone. He sighed, exasperated, as he exited the last room of the top floor, his gun hanging by his side. He felt numb as he waved the cops and crime scene people to search the floor. She had to be here.  
  
He walked into the kitchen, the linoleum squeaked under his shoes. He had no idea what to do, where to search next. He'd searched the entire house. Grissom left the house. She wasn't in there. The man had to have her somewhere else.  
  
As Grissom walked around the perimeter of the house, he holstered his weapon. The sun was bright, he couldn't understand why Mother Nature didn't know to match his moods with a gray sky.  
  
And then the sun glanced off a piece of metal onto a dirty window he hadn't noticed. The window was just above ground level, he never would've seen it, and he realized suddenly that there was a basement.  
  
Grissom dashed into the house, looking fiercely for the door to the basement. He found it locked, and he broke the lock off without thinking about it. The door opened up to a dark and dusty space, a stream of light filtered through the dust to reveal a set of creaky wooden stairs. They hardly looked strong enough to stay up by themselves but he rushed down them anyway.  
  
"Sara!" Grissom yelled, the name ricocheting off the walls, reverberating in his ears. "Sara, are you here?"  
  
A faint moan led him to her battered and bloody form; she lay curled in the fetal position on a mound of tarps and paint-spattered drop clothes. Sara was covered in bruises, some nearly purple. Her exposed back had the words 'All finished' written in permanent marker, a skinning knife lay discarded by her side. He had obviously been interrupted by the arrival of the police. A hammer-shaped bruise, slightly faded but still dark, underscored the words. She had recently been hit repeatedly with some kind of rod, and as Grissom surveyed the scene, he noticed some plastic pipe that looked to be about the right size. "Oh, Sare. . ."  
  
He tried lifting her gently and she cried out in pain, so he put her down and hollered, "I need paramedics down here NOW!"  
  
"Grissom. . ." The sound of her voice made him turn to face her.  
  
"Shh, Sara, I'm here, don't move." He sat down to wait, held her hand as she cried. "You'll be fine. You'll be fine," he repeated, for his sake as well as hers.  
  
-------------  
  
"She's gone through a lot, Mr. Grissom," the white-coated surgeon explained. "We're still fixing some of the internal bleeding. . .we took out her appendix, it was pretty damaged. Infection had set in. We've patched up her ribs, sutured muscle back to where it was supposed to be. We also reset her left knee; it had been dislocated, the tendons are torn. Oh, and she's got a deep cut on her face, we sutured it but it'll probably scar."  
  
He listened silently, nodded, and asked, "How long will she be here?"  
  
The doctor, who's coat had "Fuentes" stitched above his heart and looked to be all of twenty-five, replied, "Couple of weeks, maybe more, before she can even think about returning to Vegas. It may be a month or more after that before she can return to work."  
  
He nodded again. "She's not going to like that."  
  
Fuentes shrugged. "She's not going to have a choice."  
  
"Thank you, Doctor."  
  
"No problem," he replied. "She should be out within the hour. You're not family, but I pulled some strings and you'll be allowed into the ICU when she's ready."  
  
Grissom nodded again, his neck complaining at the repetitive motion, and sat down. Fuentes walked down the hall towards the row of operating suites, but paused halfway down and came back.  
  
Grissom rose from his chair to greet him. "I just wanted you to know," said the doctor, who had picked up on the older man's protective vibes and the way he looked at the patient, "that it doesn't appear that she'd been sexually assaulted."  
  
Grissom let out a sigh of relief.  
  
--------------  
  
He was there when she awoke, groggy as hell and fighting the pain. Even with the high-voltage drugs they'd put her on, she was completely aware of every suture, inside and out, and the way they tugged on her bruised flesh. Sara looked up at Grissom through half-lidded eyes, confusion written all over her face. "What's going on?" she croaked, throat sore from the oxygen tube. She struggled to raise herself up and winced as her ribs wrenched against the action.  
  
"Hey, sit back down," he ordered.  
  
"Hello to you, too, Grissom."  
  
He cringed a little as he realized how harsh he must have sounded. "Sorry, it's just best if you don't move."  
  
"Yeah, I figured that out." She forced a smile, but even that hurt. "Ow."  
  
"I'm not going to ask how you are, because it's pretty obvious."  
  
"Like I got run over by a steamroller, thanks for asking," she murmured. "Where am I?"  
  
"Atlanta General." At her blank look, he continued, "Georgia, seminar, failing to get away from a killer, any of this coming back to you?"  
  
"A little." Sara closed her eyes, and in the silence that ensued, he wondered if she'd fallen asleep. Her voice assured him that she had not. "My parents coming?"  
  
"I called. They'll be here as soon as they can."  
  
She rolled her head away from him, not wanting him to see her face as she replied slightly hurt, "As soon as the last guest leaves."  
  
"Hey," he reassured her, "it's business."  
  
"Figures," she said, eyes still closed. "They tell me to take it easy most of my childhood and not put business first, and now they change their minds."  
  
He didn't have a response to this and she was fading, so Grissom watched her until she fell asleep, whispering, "I love you," to her and kissed her forehead.  
  
-------------  
  
"Mr. Grissom?" The voice of young Dr. Fuentes rolled through Grissom's ears, waking the scientist from his sleep.  
  
"Yes?" He groaned sleepily, stretching. He had followed Sara into sleep a few hours ago, forgetting how uncomfortable hospital chairs were.  
  
"Can we step outside, please?"  
  
"What's going on?" he asked, worried.  
  
"I'd like to talk to you, but I don't want to wake her up," the doctor said quietly.  
  
Grissom glanced down at the sleeping brunette, who looked. . .lost. He hadn't had the chance to see her sleeping, and there was something about the way her face relaxed that mystified him. Her cheek, swollen from the injury, was the only flaw he could see, and he knew she would make some comment about being Frankenstein when she awoke. "Sure," Grissom replied, after he had finished his observation.  
  
They stepped into the fluorescent hallway, Grissom blinking at the light. "You're concerned about Sara?"  
  
Fuentes looked away, then met Grissom's eyes. "What do you know about her eating habits?"  
  
The question caught him off-guard, he did not answer for a few moments. "She's a vegetarian," he offered, not quite knowing what the doctor wanted to know.  
  
The doctor nodded. "And as far as you know, she doesn't have an eating disorder?"  
  
"No, why?" He stared at the doctor, eyebrows pulling together, forehead wrinkling in question.  
  
Fuentes sighed. "She's underweight. She's, what, a hundred and ten pounds?" At Grissom's blank look, he continued, "At her height, she should be at least ten pounds heavier, if not more."  
  
"How do you know her weight isn't due to the trauma she's been through?"  
  
"Her medical records. She's chronically underweight, Mr. Grissom. I'm worried that this. . . situation. . .may exacerbate her condition. Do you know why she stays that thin?"  
  
Grissom thought for a moment, then answered, "She has trouble keeping weight on. It's partially the job, the stress, but she has a lot of energy. Sara burns her food very quickly, when she eats."  
  
"When she eats?"  
  
"It's the job," he explained again. "Sometimes, she gets so wrapped up in a case that she forgets about what she needs. I'm sure you've seen that before."  
  
Fuentes nodded. "Medical school. Studying for my medical Boards. My first run in the E.R. I assume you'll be the one taking care of her in Las Vegas?"  
  
"Yes." The answer rolled off his tongue automatically.  
  
"I need you to put some weight on her while she's not working. Get her in the habit of eating three times a day, every day, regardless of what she is doing. Get her on a schedule. Whatever works for her."  
  
----------  
  
"Hi, Sara. I'm Dr. Fuentes, I was the surgeon assigned to your case, I'll also be your primary doctor while you are at this hospital."  
  
"Hi," she replied, groggy. The young Latino doctor had been in the room when she awoke.  
  
"Just a couple of things real quick and I'll let you get back to sleep, alright? First, we had to remove your appendix, so you'll have a slight scar on your abdomen. Second, your ribs are taped, and we had to suture your external intercostal-uh, rib-muscles, so you may have some pain when you inhale or exhale."  
  
"No shit," she whispered, grimacing. 


	7. chapter 7

There was a short knock on the door, the kind of knock Sara called a 'knuckle-knock' because it required the second knuckles of the first two fingers to do. It was a versatile knock, a polite knock, a quiet knock, unlike the heavy rap of police. The knuckle-knock was also Tony Dodd's knock of choice.  
  
Grissom looked up from the crossword puzzle he was working on, rose to open the door as Sara finished eating her "most disgusting piece of hospital crap food I've had this entire time." She swallowed another bite of the meal, a grimace crossing her face.  
  
"Grissom, this is such shit," she whined. "Whoever decided that this was nutritious should be shot. . .this could induce bulimia."  
  
"You know, it's never good to suggest a crime in front of a police officer," Dodd drawled. The tall, stocky detective was running her case, but it was the first time they had met. Dodd had been by the hospital before, two days ago, when she was still sleeping off the anesthesia.  
  
"I'll take my chances," she smiled. "Besides, if you were forced to eat this, you'd want to kill someone too."  
  
Dodd moved to the side of the bed, looked at her plate, nose wrinkling in disgust. "What the hell is it?"  
  
"I have no idea, but it's nastier than a two-month-old decomp in a gym bag." She wanted to shrug, but it hurt. "And you are. . .?"  
  
"Detective Dodd, Atlanta PD. I'm in charge of the investigation into your attack, Miss Sidle. I'd like to ask you a few questions about it, if you're up to it."  
  
"That's fine, but please, call me Sara." Grissom looked up from his crossword puzzle to silently ask if she would be ok. "Gris, it's ok."  
  
"Okay," Tony said, sitting down and taking out a notepad. "You want to start from the beginning?"  
  
Sara closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Grissom and I had just finished a seminar, and I had gone to the bathroom to wash my hands. . .I had ink on my fingers from demonstrating how fingerprinting worked."  
  
"Why hadn't you washed your hands prior to the end of the lecture?"  
  
"It was one of the last things we did, and I didn't want to interrupt the lesson by leaving. I mean, I've had ink on my fingers a hundred times without any problem, I wasn't going to leave just for that."  
  
Dodd nodded, writing it down. "So you're in the bathroom. What happened next?"  
  
"He was there. My. . .attacker. I can't tell you what he looks like because I don't really remember, but I do remember having a conversation with him."  
  
Grissom's head shot up. "You what?"  
  
"I talked to him," she said, non-chalant. "I knew it was the guy, I knew what he was going to do, but I. . .I guess I thought if I talked to him, he'd leave. Guess I was wrong."  
  
"How did he get you out of the bathroom?" Dodd asked, and Grissom listened intently, absolutely curious.  
  
"A window," she said. "Wait, maybe that was how he got me into the house. . .I don't remember."  
  
"Okay," Dodd said softly. It would be one of the only times Grissom would ever see him acting compassionate; Tony, by nature, only cared about the victims and catching suspects. And he was brutal with his quarry. "I have to ask you about the actual assault now, Sara, if that's alright."  
  
"Let's go," she ordered.  
  
"I'm sorry," Grissom apologized as he rose from his seat. "I can't listen to this. I'll be outside."  
  
The brunette watched him go without judgement, and Tony waited until the door had closed to speak again. "The two of you are close?"  
  
"You've talked to him, haven't you?" Sara asked, and Tony nodded. "Then you know why he can't listen to me talk about what the bastard did to me."  
  
"I do, but tell me yourself."  
  
She swallowed. "We only did this seminar thing to get me out of Las Vegas, because the guy who did this was coming after me. It was Grissom's idea, he thought if I was far enough away, the danger would pass, that our colleagues would catch the guy and it would be over. So I'm sure you can imagine the guilt he feels for bringing me all the way to Georgia and this happens anyway, regardless of how hard he tried."  
  
"I can," Dodd conceded. "If it were my. . ." he coughed, "My woman-pardon the terminology-I can't even begin to tell you how I would feel."  
  
"Grissom's got enough guilt for a whole church of Catholics."  
  
Dodd nodded, then looked back at his notepad. "What happened to you, Sara?"  
  
"I remember. . .hits," she said, eyes closed against the flood of memories rushing back. "I remember kicks, and cuts. I remember. . ." A baseball bat whistling down to land on her back, pipes, a hammer and. . . "Pain. A lot of pain."  
  
----------  
  
The physical therapist had blond tips on his spiky black hair, and looked like a Korean-American Greg Sanders, down to the funky-colored scrubs and lab coat. His name was Kenny and he was about Greg's age, too. But the comparison did not end at his age, clothes and how he styled his hair. He was a little eccentric, had a ton of fun doing his job, and listened to punk rock. Sara adored him. Kenny could always make her laugh, no matter how much pain she was in on a given day. She looked forward to PT; and Kenny would drop by on the days they didn't meet to say hello.  
  
Grissom was jealous.  
  
He would never admit it, if she ever brought it up. She wasn't sure exactly what he was jealous of, but the look on his face when Kenny came in every day was perfectly clear. . .and pretty damn funny.  
  
Sara gave Grissom a sloppy, reassuring peck on the cheek as a nurse wheeled her down to the PT room. She raised her hand up enough to wave at him, and turned to see if he would reciprocate the motion. The frown on his face told her that he thought she was teasing him, so she blew him a kiss.  
  
Kenny was watching Jerry Springer when she rolled in. The nurse had left her at the door, it was part of Sara's "recovery plan", as Kenny put it. His head did not turn when the door slammed behind the wheelchair, but he raised his right hand in greeting, and said, "Hey, Sara."  
  
The television spat out a litany of bleeps as two transvestites on the screen started fighting over an emaciated blond.  
  
"That's quality TV, Ken," she said dryly as she watched with disgust.  
  
"I don't know why, but sometimes the dregs of society still surprise me," he responded, to the television.  
  
"Nothing about human behavior surprises me anymore. Perk of the job," she said slowly. "Why are we watching this?"  
  
"Because it's funny, and I still have five minutes before our appointment."  
  
"It's sick, and I'm not early," she pointed out.  
  
He checked his watch just as an audience member called the blond a whore and told her to "go get some KFC, you need it you thin bi-bleep!"  
  
"Damn, you're right," Kenny said, looking up from his wrist. "You're always early. What's wrong, you feeling okay?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," Sara said with a smile. "They're letting me loose day after tomorrow."  
  
He turned around, absently shutting off the television. "That's great!"  
  
She rolled her eyes. "I know they told you already."  
  
Kenny's eyebrows contracted in pseudo-concentration, then returned to normal as he pointed at Sara and said, "Right!"  
  
"It was partially your decision, Kenny. Eager to get rid of me?"  
  
He shook his head vigorously. "God, no. But I have to say that I think you may be one of my all-time favorite patients, and I am thrilled to give you this next step."  
  
"What?" Sara asked, confused by the last bit of his sentence.  
  
"If you ever get bored, you can turn up the music and rock out on air guitar with one, still using the other to poke your annoying younger brother in the back of the head while he tries to watch TV," he quizzed. "At least that's what I did when I broke my leg."  
  
"You broke your leg when you were fourteen."  
  
"And what did I get for it?"  
  
"Crutches," she said, an unspoken duh finishing her sentence. Her eyes widened with understanding. "I get crutches today. No more chair?"  
  
His blond tips nodded. "It's a going away present."  
  
"I haven't walked in weeks. . ."  
  
"It'll be fine," he assured her, handing her the crutches. "Trust me."  
  
She took the smooth wood into her hands, ecstatic. Kenny asked, "You ever have crutches before?"  
  
"Once, in college. I slipped on some beer at a party. . ." Sara smiled at him. "I'm sure you can guess the rest."  
  
"What'd you break?"  
  
"Ankle. The first time I'd broken any body part."  
  
"Ok, so you know how to use them. First step is not to go too far too fast."  
  
"The PT motto," she said. "Never do more than you can handle. Don't rush your body. Blah, blah, blah."  
  
"I'm going to help you up, you may need assistance for a while, until your strength is better," he explained, ignoring her comment. Kenny positioned the crutches for her, then gently lifted her out of the chair, Sara doing most of the work. "Ok, one step at a time, nice and slow."  
  
She took a weak step forward, grimaced as a wave of pain washed over her muscles. "Shit, that hurts."  
  
"Be careful not to put weight on your injured knee," he cautioned.  
  
"I know," she said, taking a deep breath before placing the crutches in front of her and moving another small step forward. The pain lessened with each step. "Well, well," she muttered. "Look at me go." 


	8. chapter 8

A/N: Hi, no copyright infringment intented for 'Woman in the Dunes.' Which I don't own. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------  
  
"It's about damn time," she muttered as he wheeled her to the curb, where an airport shuttle's engine purred in time to the blinking hazard lights. He looked down at her questioningly. "I missed being outside," she explained.  
  
After he put her bag into the van, Grissom handed her the crutches she'd received only two days ago and helped her up. She stood propped while he cleared a seat, then he reached for her and she gladly accepted his help into the van. This simple action had worn her out; she couldn't imagine what the flight to Vegas would do. She closed her eyes as Grissom settled in next to her, and did not open them until they'd reached the airport.  
  
He had made arrangements for them to board first, and when she attempted to go towards coach, he smiled and turned her to the first row of first class. She glanced back at him. "You didn't. . ."  
  
"Yep. Bought the first three seats in the first row." He grinned at her.  
  
"Grissom, that must have cost a fortune!"  
  
He shrugged. "Taxpayer's money, not mine. Besides, I wanted you to be comfortable, have room to lay down."  
  
"You're crazy!" But her grin belied her tone, she was pleased he had thought of all of this. "Who's got window?"  
  
"You do. I wasn't going to let you get bumped by a flight attendant with a food cart."  
  
She fell asleep almost immediately after takeoff, and he manipulated her prone form so she wasn't sitting straight in her seat but stretched out over the two seats he purchased for her. He kept her legs on his lap, elevated so they wouldn't swell and cause her pain. The increase in pressure would cause her enough pain, and she'd popped a Vicodin before the plane left the ground.  
  
The flight was uneventful, he'd woken her up right before they landed, had the flight attendant get a chair ready for her. He wheeled her groggy frame into the glaring McCarran International Airport, where she gestured for him to lean down. "All these lights are going to give me a seizure, Gris. I knew I didn't miss this place," she whispered in his ear.  
  
He chuckled, about to reply when a familiar male voice cut through the air. "Sara Sidle, this is no way to treat your friends when we come and visit!"  
  
Ari Bishop was bearing down on them, a huge grin stretched across his face, followed by Kate Lamont and the rest of the crew.  
  
"Seriously, Miss Sidle, we expect to be shown a better time next time we come," the bearded redhead said as he leaned down to kiss her cheek.  
  
"Sorry, Are-man. Next time I'll show you Vegas, ok? Promise," she groggily grinned. "Hey, Kate."  
  
"Sara, hon, you should smack that man for not getting you far enough away. How are you?"  
  
"Tired," she answered truthfully.  
  
Grissom immediately was down at her level, locking eyes, asking "You ok?" in a voice heavy with concern.  
  
Sara reached up and touched his cheek, grinning slightly. "I'm fine, just tired."  
  
"Nothing hurts?"  
  
"The pills are still working, Gris." He nodded, accepting it for now, and rose.  
  
"He's so whipped," Nick whispered to Warrick.  
  
"Oh, yeah," Warrick whispered back.  
  
"Warrick!" Sara cried. "Crime Stopper!"  
  
Nick smiled down at his co-worker. "You're drugged, and you still won't let up. That's just like you, Sara."  
  
"Get down here, you guys, you're too tall." They knelt by her chair. "Of course he's whipped," she murmured, out of Grissom's hearing.  
  
--------  
  
"Bathroom's down the hall, kitchen's right here, bedroom's that way," he gestured towards a closed door. "The floor's not going to be a problem, is it?"  
  
Sara looked down at the wood, took a cautious step forward on the crutches. When she didn't slip, she shrugged. The action made her grimace with discomfort, and she said, "I think it's fine." Sara glanced over the apartment. "It's neat," she said. "I'm not going to trip on anything but my own feet. That's good."  
  
"Yeah, I went over to your apartment, and it's pretty messy."  
  
"When were you at my place?"  
  
"I stopped on the way here; you were sleeping. I collected some of your things, pillows, books, clothes, blankets."  
  
Her lips quirked slightly. "You sound like you're making up an evidence list."  
  
"Sorry," he apologized.  
  
"Don't apologize," she said. "It's your nature, I'll forgive you."  
  
"I thought we could share the bedroom, unless. . .I can always sleep on the couch."  
  
She looked at his couch with a grimace. "I wouldn't want you to break your back on that thing," Sara said, and with a shrug, added, "Besides, I kinda like you fully functional. . .just in case you have to save me from anything else soon. And you're warm."  
  
"Using me for warmth, is that all this relationship's come down to?"  
  
"Oh, so we're in a relationship, are we?" She was so pleased that he had defined it, it was her rule that the most emotionally closed-off person in a relationship had to be the one to say what it was.  
  
Grissom looked confused and a little panicked. "I was under the impression we are, am I wrong?"  
  
"No," she snorted, giving him a huge grin. "Gris, I'm just messing with you."  
  
------------  
  
"Grissom?" Her voice cut through the dark as she lay next to him that night.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"I can't sleep." It was matter-of-fact, a little apologetic, and a little apprehensive.  
  
He reached up and turned on the lamp by his bed, illuminating her face. "Need a pill?"  
  
"I took one an hour ago, it's not that." She looked like she wanted to ask him something but wasn't sure how.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Uh, I think it's the bed." She shot him a smile. "I'm not used to it."  
  
Sara's eyes were telling a different story. "What can I do?"  
  
"Promise not to laugh at me?" she asked. "It's kinda childish."  
  
"Promise I won't laugh."  
  
"Could you read to me?" Her voice was hopeful. "I know it sounds a little strange, but it really helps me sleep."  
  
"So, you're telling me that my voice puts you to sleep."  
  
"No!" she exclaimed. "Of course not. There's just something about the rhythm of someone reading to me that knocks me out. I have a ton of books on tape at home just to sleep."  
  
"Okay," he said, reaching for his copy of The Woman in The Dunes. "It's about an entomologist in Japan who gets trapped in a sand dune," he introduced. "It's boring as hell, so it'll put you right out, promise."  
  
"Great," she said, giving him a half-smile.  
  
"Part One, chapter one. 'One day in August a man disappeared. . .'" 


	9. chapter 9

Ah, the pointless chapter from hell.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------  
  
"I just don't get it," Nick said. "He's completely infatuated. He's hardly acting like himself."  
  
Warrick gave him a look and shrugged. "The guy's in love, he's whipped. You saw how he peeled out of here as soon as shift was over. Leave him alone."  
  
"Yeah, but this is Gil 'Girls scare me' Grissom," Nick pointed out. "He's not the kind of person who falls in love like that, even if you ignore the whipped status."  
  
"Even science nerds fall in love like that," Catherine interjected. "And think about it. He's with Sara. Of course he's whipped. You think she would be the weak one in a relationship? Uh-uh."  
  
"Ah, hell," Warrick said with a smile. "They're both equally whipped! Ever seen Sara not do something Gris wants?"  
  
---------  
  
She sat on their brand-new leather couch, studying a forensics magazine, when he came up behind her. He bent down to her level, put his head on her shoulder, and kissed her neck gently. She turned and looked at him, smiled. "Hey, you're late."  
  
"I told you I'd be working a double."  
  
"So, in reality you're very early."  
  
He chuckled. "Right. What are you reading?"  
  
"Uh, it's an article on possible new uses for ninhydrin."  
  
"You can take the criminalist out of the lab, but you can't take the lab out of the criminalist."  
  
"Shut up, Grissom."  
  
"Hey, I know you miss it."  
  
"Yeah." A moment later, her voice cut through the silence. "So, what was so interesting you had to pull a double?"  
  
"Guy killed his wife, but she had a gun in her hand when he stabbed her. Guess what happened next?"  
  
"She shot him," Sara grinned.  
  
"So we thought we had a double murder, sort of, but right when shift was ending, Nick brings in evidence that they had been killed by an outside source. Guess who?"  
  
"Guy's girlfriend?"  
  
"Not exactly."  
  
"Guy's boyfriend."  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Girl's mistress, or mister."  
  
"Close."  
  
"Girl's boyfriend's trained monkey?"  
  
"Girl's boyfriend's boyfriend, who's the husband's trained monkey."  
  
"Wow."  
  
"Yeah," he grinned, moving to sit next to her. Changing the subject, he asked, "What did the doctor say?"  
  
She exhaled. "She said I could go back when I'm ready, that I'm mostly healed."  
  
"It'd be desk duty only, you know that, right?"  
  
She looked over at him and smiled sadly. "I know, but I'm not ready yet."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. Gris, I can't even walk to the kitchen from here without getting exhausted, let alone walk a scene or do paperwork all night. I'm not ready." 


	10. chapter 10

A ringing phone woke him, and Grissom disentangled himself from Sara to answer it.  
  
"Hello?" he asked, yawning.  
  
"Gil Grissom?" a woman drawled with a heavy Southern accent.  
  
"Yeah, that's me," Grissom said, rubbing his eyes.  
  
"Hold, please." Terrible soft rock filled the line. He sighed, checked the clock. 2:30 p.m.  
  
"Grissom, you there?" Tony Dodd, the lead investigator on Sara's case, asked.  
  
"Tony, what do you want?" he whispered. "Sara's sleeping, it's the middle of the day."  
  
"Sorry, man, forgot you work graveyard." Dodd wasn't really sorry, Grissom didn't think the man had apologized sincerely for anything since he'd become a cop. "Didn't mean to wake you up, but I think you'll be interested in what I have to say."  
  
"What?" Grissom yawned again. "Something new on Sara's case?"  
  
"You could put it that way." Grissom could hear the man grinning. "We caught him."  
  
"What?!" he exclaimed loudly.  
  
Sara stirred next to him as Tony said, "He's dead. Admitted to everything, we have it on tape, it's being transcribed as we speak. He tried to run at a colleague of mine with a knife-full of bullets now."  
  
"Can you send the body here?"  
  
Tony's voice turned a little cold, Grissom remembered he was as territorial as a male lion. "It was a righteous shoot, Grissom."  
  
"I don't doubt that at all, I just want to see it for myself. Do the autopsy."  
  
"Spit on the bastard, let Sara get her kicks in. . .right? I know what you're thinking. He's already covered in foreign DNA," Tony drawled. "I'll send him special delivery, overnight mail. You'll get him tomorrow, ok?"  
  
"Thanks," Grissom said, truly grateful. "I'll tell Sara when she wakes up."  
  
"No problem. I hate these assholes."  
  
"Me, too." He nearly hung up, but before he did, he asked, "Hey, Tony? What was his name?"  
  
"Jerry Phillips. Catch you around, Grissom." Dodd hung up.  
  
He sat in silence for two minutes, soaking up the information. Jerry Phillips. It sounded so. . . normal. So boy-next-door. Well, boy-next- door with a mean streak and a carving knife.  
  
He was dead, but Jerry Phillips was still coming to Vegas, maybe to exact his last wounds. Grissom regretted that he couldn't have killed the man himself. For what he did to Sara, Grissom could have killed him a thousand times over and it wouldn't be enough.  
  
Sara. He had to tell her.  
  
Grissom reached over and caressed her unscarred cheek, she turned into his hand with a small groan. "Sara," he whispered. "Wake up."  
  
"What is it?" she slurred.  
  
"Tony Dodd just called. They caught your guy." He watched his words sink in as she woke fully.  
  
"What?" she asked, surprised. "Are you serious?"  
  
"Yeah," he replied softly.  
  
"Well, where is he? Where's the bastard? I wanna talk to him," she rushed, as she tried to rise to get dressed.  
  
"Hey, hey, lie down. He'll be in the lab tomorrow night."  
  
"What you mean?" She shot him a quizzical look.  
  
"They shot him."  
  
"He's dead," she sighed with relief.  
  
"Yeah, it's over."  
  
"Oh, God. It's over." They both realized at the same moment what exactly that meant, what the impact was, but he was surprised to see tears course down her face.  
  
"What's the matter?" Grissom asked, concerned.  
  
She smiled at him through the tears. "I-I don't know. I. . . just. . .never realized it would be over and done, that he would be dead. . ." Sara sniffled, wiped brusquely at her eyes. "I guess I'm just releasing pent-up stuff. Damn, I thought I was done crying. Oh, shit," she exhaled. "The bastard's dead. Wow."  
  
------------------  
  
"Somebody ordered a corpse?" The deliveryman was a funeral director Grissom had never met before.  
  
"Yeah, I did," Grissom said sharply. "That's Jerry Phillips, from Georgia?"  
  
The director checked a notepad, and the tag on the body bag. "Yep, and now he's all yours. Sign here please," he requested, handing Grissom a chain- of-custody card.  
  
David, the young coroner, was walking by as Grissom was signing, and Grissom called, "David, can you get this body into an autopsy bay, please? Don't touch him."  
  
"Sure thing, Grissom," the young man said, and lifted the bag onto a gurney, which he then pushed into the building.  
  
"Thank you," Grissom called, both to the coroner and to the funeral director, who had taken the card and returned to his hearse.  
  
Grissom changed into scrubs, posted a Do Not Enter sign on the door of the autopsy bay, and slowly unzipped the bag, turning the body onto a table. He exhaled harshly before he looked at the man.  
  
A preliminary autopsy had already been performed, he knew this from talking with Tony Dodd, but the coroner had not opened up the body. As Grissom looked over the body, he swore. "Son of a bitch, Tony. Two bullets is a righteous shoot, not two hundred."  
  
Indeed, it appeared that every cop at the scene had emptied their guns into Phillips. The majority of the bullets were in Phillips' chest, but quite a few were in the groin area and two were lodged in his skull, one in his forehead, and one between his eyes.  
  
"Incredible," Al Robbins said from behind him, crutches clicking as he moved closer. "I've heard of Southern justice, but this is new."  
  
"Doc, did you miss the Do Not Enter sign?"  
  
The old coroner shrugged. "I figured you could use some company with the guy. You didn't bring Sara in, so I assumed you wanted some alone time with him. I wouldn't want you to do anything. . .rash."  
  
"Thank you, doc, but I'm fine."  
  
"I'm staying, though. Protocol. Not that you have much use for that."  
  
"Not right now I don't."  
  
The coroner nodded, taking another look at the body. "He's shiny. That's strange."  
  
"Not when a dozen cops have spit on him," Grissom said.  
  
"I see." Robbins turned away to check the toe tag. "Jerry Phillips, age 35," he read. "Want to open him up?"  
  
Grissom shook his head. "No, I just wanted to see it for myself. It's pretty obvious how he died." He looked away from the corpse, thinking.  
  
"How is Sara, anyway?" Robbins asked, knowing exactly where Grissom's mind was.  
  
"Coping," Grissom answered. 


	11. chapter 11

He caught her staring at herself in the mirror one day, checking out the scar on her face, tracing it with her finger. "It's terrible," she murmured to herself. "It's ugly. I'm ugly."  
  
"No, you're not." She started at the sound of his voice. "It does not change you, Sara."  
  
"Yes, yes it does."  
  
"I thought you didn't care about it."  
  
"I do." She turned back to the mirror. "People are going to stare at me."  
  
"They probably will, but you shouldn't worry about it."  
  
"People are going to ask what it means. They'll think S is for stupid, S is for shocking, S is for . . ."  
  
"Smart, sexy, super, stupendous, superb, amazing."  
  
"Amazing doesn't start with an S."  
  
"So? It doesn't make you any less of a person, Sara. It's a scar. It's proof you are a survivor."  
  
"It really is ugly, isn't it?"  
  
"No!" He turned her away from the mirror, putting his hands on her shoulders, they locked eyes. "Look, I don't care what you look like, you are still you, I'll still love you. You are stronger than any person out there who thinks they have to judge you based on a scar. You are beautiful, no matter what he did to you."  
  
She wrapped her arms around him, buried her face into his shirt. "You're just trying to make me feel better."  
  
"Yeah, you're right. Did it work?" he asked, mock-seriously.  
  
"No," she replied, equally mocking.  
  
"Damn, I'll have to try harder then." He pretended to think for a minute, making appropriate thinking noises, then said, "Maybe this will help."  
  
Grissom brushed his lips over her face, spending what seemed like an eternity on the S-shaped scar, then dabbled down to her lips. They held their lips together until she ran out of oxygen; she grinned. "That helped."  
  
-------  
  
A few days later, they were playing Hearts in Grissom's living room with Nick and Catherine. Warrick was scorekeeper, he would switch roles with whoever was in last at the end of the game. The game had been going fine, until Sara became one card away from shooting the moon. Catherine had received the heart by accident, and now Grissom was watching Sara's face get progressively tighter, her jaw setting in frustration. It hadn't helped that because of this, Sara had been shoved out of first place into last place, Catherine taking over her spot. After they tallied this shift from first to last, Sara stood up quickly, looking at her almost complete hand, and flung the cards down at Catherine. "Fucking bitch!" she yelled, and stalked off towards Grissom's bedroom.  
  
They all stared wide-eyed at the cards, not understanding the outburst. It was clear Catherine was fighting back her own anger; she was not going to let anyone call her a bitch without some kind of reaction. Nick and Warrick turned to Grissom, who said, "I'm so sorry, Catherine. It's the pills she's been taking, and you know how she hates to be wrong. . ."  
  
Catherine exhaled. "It's fine, Grissom."  
  
"Excuse me," he said, and rose from the table.  
  
She was sitting on the bed, breathing hard, trying to control her anger. "Hey," he said quietly, and Sara whirled around. He was surprised to see tears in her eyes, and moved to sit next to her. "What's going on?"  
  
She wrapped her arms around him and cried. He held her while she spoke. "I don't know, Grissom. It's like it was just a game, and then I lost, and I was so mad!"  
  
"I noticed," he commented dryly, and she laughed.  
  
"I'm so sorry," she cried. "It's just the pills, and sitting across from her and she's perfect, and then to top it off, she took my win away!"  
  
"Catherine is not perfect," he told her. "You know that."  
  
"But she doesn't have this," she gestured to the scar. "She can work, she can go out, she can stay awake longer than four hours! She doesn't have someone telling her when to eat, when to sleep. I hate this, Grissom. I want my life back."  
  
It was at this point when he realized just how much the man responsible had taken away, both physically and emotionally. "You want to go back to your apartment?"  
  
"I don't know, Grissom. I want to stay, but then I don't. I honestly don't know what I want, and it's not helping that these goddamn pain killers are giving me mood swings."  
  
"That's it," he said firmly. "Monday, you better sleep during the day, because you're coming back Monday night."  
  
"I don't know if I'm ready!" she protested.  
  
He shrugged. "I guess you'll find out. And you never know until you try. All I know is you're going crazy in this apartment, and even if you don't do anything, the change of scenery will do you good."  
  
"I guess you're right."  
  
"You know I am."  
  
She closed her eyes, pulling herself together. "I should apologize."  
  
"Let's go." He helped her to her feet and together they walked out to the living room.  
  
They were met with three pairs of expectant eyes, the people behind them ashamed of their expectations. "Catherine, I am so sorry, I don't know what to tell you, but I am so sorry," Sara rushed.  
  
"Hey, it's all right," the older woman said. "I know what drugs can do to your emotions." She left it at that, and suggested they get back to the game. Sara requested scorekeeper duty, which she stuck to until she got too tired and disappeared to bed. 


	12. chapter 12

"Hey, it's Super Sara!" Nick said as she and Grissom came into the break room on Monday. She froze, glanced accusingly at Grissom, who began sending out protective vibes as he glared at Nick. Nick put his hands out in surrender. "Sorry, I didn't realize. . ."  
  
"You say nothing about my scar, you understand?" Sara snapped. "No comments at all. I want you to pretend it's not even there, ok?"  
  
"Sure," Nick said, hoping Grissom would stop giving him the 'Death' Look.  
  
"Okay," she said, relaxing. Nick watched, amused, as Grissom relaxed with her, his posture slacking.  
  
--------------  
  
She was asleep on the couch when he came in at the end of shift, various printouts of fingerprint reports were strewn across the layout table with manila files opened as well. She'd obviously been matching fingerprints with cases, and, he noted, slightly annoyed, she'd started his crossword puzzle. In pen. And, as he glanced over it once, she'd gotten one of the clues wrong.  
  
The brunette stirred, and Grissom asked, "Sara?"  
  
With one eye half-open, she replied with a non-committal moan, and rolled so her back was facing him.  
  
"Staying here today, or coming home?" he asked her back.  
  
"Go away," she grumbled.  
  
"So you're staying," he said, matter-of-fact.  
  
She groaned and turned to lie on her back, rubbed her eyes sleepily. "You wouldn't dare leave me here with day shift."  
  
"Not if we go now. You want to go out for breakfast?"  
  
Sara opened her big brown eyes at the sound of breakfast, but sighed and answered, "I need a Vicodin, and that's going to put me out like a light."  
  
"Here," Grissom tossed her the pill canister. "We'll go home, I'll cook something when you're ready."  
  
"Damn," she said, laden with sarcasm, "I was really looking forward to a smoky restaurant."  
  
He glared at her, then helped Sara to her feet. She grimaced as she put weight on her injured knee, causing him to state, "Your knee still hurts."  
  
"I didn't tell you? Doctor said that'd be the last to heal, I may get arthritis."  
  
---------  
  
She fell asleep on the couch almost immediately after they arrived at home. He was glad, he had to make a phone call and didn't want her to hear it.  
  
"Jennifer? Hi, this is Gil Grissom. Yes, I'm calling about Sara," he said quietly into the receiver.  
  
"What's up?" the psychologist said. She'd been treating the woman for two months now, but recently, Sara had quit coming to her sessions. There was nothing Jenny Pauley could do, it wasn't like Sara was required to come, so she had let the woman go with her phone number and the assurance from Gil Grissom that Sara would call if she needed anything. It turned out that Grissom had called far more often than Sara would. Jennifer had not been surprised.  
  
"She needs something, but I don't know what."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
The man sighed heavily. "She's been very. . .down. . .lately. Sleeping too much, never hungry, irritable. She nearly killed Catherine yesterday over a game of cards. She's acting depressed, but she'll be fine for a few days and I think it's over. I brought her to work today for a change of pace, and she was better."  
  
"Where is she now?" Jenny asked, absorbing all of the symptoms. She knew Gil cared very much for the brunette, would do almost anything for her.  
  
"Sleeping. I woke her up to bring her home and as soon as we got here she was out like a light."  
  
"Ok, here's what we're going to do. One, wake her up." There was a slight protest on the other line. "Gil, wake her up. Get her outside, take a walk. I don't care what, but get her out of the apartment, and get her some exercise."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
"Keep it up. Every day, rain or shine, take her somewhere. I have a feeling you're right, she is a little depressed, and don't take this the wrong way, but taking her to work was probably not helpful."  
  
"Why?" he asked, without hurt or anger.  
  
"She saw everyone leave to do what she loves, and let me guess, she got stuck doing paperwork." His silence gave her all the answer she needed. "She wants to be normal again, she wants to pretend nothing ever happened to her. I think she's still having issues with the situation, and she may not know it, but she's dying to do something about it."  
  
"What can she do? The guy's dead."  
  
"Not to her. Maybe never to her." She changed topics, "Does she know you called me? That you were planning to call me?"  
  
"She's going to kill me if she finds out."  
  
Jennifer thought for a moment, then said, "How are you doing?"  
  
He sighed. "I'm fine. I'm just worried."  
  
"This is a sensitive question," she said, changing topics again so fast Grissom's head spun, "but when was the last time you two. . .um. . ."  
  
"Before she was taken," he answered immediately, a little uncomfortable himself.  
  
"That hasn't been a. . .problem. . .for you or Sara? That it's been so long?"  
  
"No," he said truthfully. "She's not really up for it, and I. . .Well, it's never been that important. The physical aspect of a relationship, that is. I'm more into the emotional, personal, mental aspect. Sara's the same."  
  
"That's good. You two still sleeping together?"  
  
"Same bed every night for months, you know that."  
  
"How often do you tell her how you feel about her?"  
  
Grissom thought for a minute. "Probably not enough," he admitted. "I always thought that once I fell like I have I'd say it a thousand times a day, but that's not me. I think Sara knows that."  
  
Jenny looked at the clock absently, noting the time. "Listen, Gil, I have to go. I have an appointment with a client in two minutes, and I have to review my notes. But feel free to call me back when you need to, ok? Now go get her up and take her out. I'm sure she'll feel better."  
  
"Thanks, doc. I didn't want her on any more meds." He hung up.  
  
The sound of the phone being hung up woke Sara, and she murmured, "Who was that?"  
  
He moved to sit next to her, moving a strand of hair off of her face. "I called Jenny."  
  
"Why?" she asked sleepily.  
  
"No reason."  
  
"You worry too much, Mr. Grissom," she replied with a smile that ended in a yawn.  
  
"I only worry because I care," he said. "Want to take a walk?"  
  
" 'Kay." Sara stretched.  
  
"I love you," he said abruptly.  
  
Sara gave him an amused look. "I know," she replied. "Me, too."  
  
He nodded, inhaling deeply. "I just wanted you to know, don't forget."  
  
She was looking at him with a mixture of confusion and amusement. "Okay," she said like he was crazy.  
  
"C'mon, let's go walk."  
  
--------  
  
"Jenny wanted to know about our." He coughed. "Personal relationship."  
  
Sara snorted, the sound leading to a full-out cackle as she thought about what he had said. "She didn't?" she said between laughing fits, a huge grin stretched across her face. "Oh, that's priceless. She didn't use those words, did she?"  
  
"No," he admitted, thrilled to see her laughing. Grissom clasped her hand, and added, with a smile of his own, "For a therapist, she has an awful lot of trouble asking about it."  
  
"What did you say?" Sara was genuinely curious through her giggles.  
  
"I told her we hardly had one, not since before everything happened."  
  
"It's probably for the best, really," she commented, still grinning.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Well." She paused to laugh again. "The end results are pretty much the same. At the end of the night, I'm exhausted, so I roll over and go to sleep. Everybody's happy, and we still wake up together. Best of both worlds, for now."  
  
"Hell," he exclaimed playfully, "why should we ever bother again? You're happy, I'm happy, everyone's happy."  
  
"Nah," she said, shaking her head. "You've still seen me naked more times than I've seen you."  
  
"And the problem with that is.?"  
  
"It's not fair, for starters." She grinned at him. "Don't worry, it'll happen again."  
  
"What if I don't want to?" he shot back.  
  
"What if I don't want to?" She stuck her tongue out at him, and they mock- glared at each other for a few moments, both grinning like fools.  
  
"I'm crazy about you," he said finally, staring into her deep brown eyes like the truth was in them.  
  
"Not nearly as crazy as I am about you," she replied softly, staring back at him.  
  
He swallowed hard, the grin melting from his face. "That's not possible."  
  
"Gris." Sara trailed off. "What are you saying?"  
  
"Did Catherine ever tell you I called her the night you went missing?" She shook her head. "I did. I was sitting in the hotel room, and it was like the world had fallen apart. All I could think was that you couldn't be gone, and all I could feel was you around me, and I felt insane and desperate and I wanted to die."  
  
She started to speak, but he cut her off. "I told Catherine that I couldn't ever imagine waking up without you, and I still can't. And I don't know exactly what I'm trying to tell you, but I don't ever want to wake up without you."  
  
Sara saw the emotions in his eyes, she pulled his head down and kissed him hard. "You won't," she promised. "You won't," she repeated more firmly, kissed him again.  
  
"Wow," he chuckled as they broke apart. "I feel vulnerable."  
  
"You forgot emotionally exposed," she teased.  
  
"Right," he said. "Another good reason to keep you around." Grissom winked at her, and they kept walking.  
  
"Wait," she said, stopping in her tracks. He turned to look at her, the question in his eyes. "Did we just do what I think we just did?"  
  
"Depends, what did we just do?"  
  
"Grissom, are we.engaged.now?"  
  
"We're.promised," he explained. "But if you want a ring, I'd be happy to oblige."  
  
"Maybe," she replied, still looking confused, he called her on it. "Yeah, I think I'm still confused."  
  
"Okay," he said, leading her to a bench and sitting them both down. "Here's the deal: I think we just promised to never be apart another day of our lives, which can be construed as a exchanging of vows, so to speak. It can also be viewed as a form of engagement, I guess."  
  
"You're nervous," she chided.  
  
"Yes, yes, I am." Grissom grinned at her. "Do you want a ring?"  
  
She shrugged. "I don't know. What do you want?"  
  
"I have no opinion either way."  
  
"You don't want to get married?" she asked. "Holy crap, I just said the 'M' word."  
  
"I would if you want to, but a piece of paper and two rings isn't going to change anything."  
  
"It makes it official," she pointed out.  
  
"True," he conceded. "Everyone would know about you and me."  
  
She snorted. "Everyone does know."  
  
He gave her a half-smile. "So, want a diamond?"  
  
"Anything you give me, I'm running purity tests on," she warned.  
  
"You wouldn't."  
  
"I might."  
  
"It'll get in the way when you have gloves on," he commented.  
  
"Yours will, too. We may just have to get chains to put them on."  
  
"So, we're doing it then."  
  
"I guess so," she said with a grin. "Whoa."  
  
Grissom watched her laugh and stutter her way through, "Okay. Wow. Holy shit. Whoa," and he had to admit she was beautiful when she was flustered.  
  
Guess the walk was the right thing to do.  
  
---------  
  
"Grissom, put me down now!" Sara commanded as he carried her into the apartment. "Grissom, come on, put me down," she begged. "Please."  
  
"Okay, okay," he smiled, putting her down. "Remind me never to give you a piggy-back ride again."  
  
"No problem, old man," she teased, removing her arms from around his neck, kissing his cheek quickly.  
  
"Who are you calling old?" he exclaimed to her retreating form.  
  
"You," she called, as she closed the bedroom door. Her voice was muffled through the wood as she added, "What are you going to do about it?"  
  
He strode into the bedroom, throwing the door open. It hit the wall with a thud, but they both ignored it as Grissom gently tackled her onto the bed. They stared at each other for a long moment, grins stretching across both of their faces, breathing hard.  
  
"This's what I'm going to do about it," he said finally, and closed the distance between his mouth and hers. 


	13. chapter 13

Catherine knocked once, waited five minutes and knocked again. After another five minute wait, she used her key to open Grissom's door. It wasn't like she was intruding, she rationalized, she had called. Three times, no answer.  
  
"Grissom?" she called, as she closed the door behind her and pocketed the keys. "Sara?"  
  
Where the hell were they? She knew it was the shift's night off, and she was planning on taking the two out for breakfast. . .if she could find them.  
  
Catherine finally peeked into the bedroom, the one room in Grissom's apartment she had never been in. And there they were, curled around each other like sleeping kittens. She smiled. Sara's head was on Grissom's shoulder, both arms flung over his chest. A blanket was tangled up by their feet, and their legs were mingled. The brunette's white tank top was riding up, and Grissom's big hands were splayed across her back. Catherine recognized the clothing they were wearing as the exact same clothes they were wearing last night.  
  
She chuckled softly, remembering how wonderful it was to wake up like that, how warm it was, how secure. . .She sighed. It had been a while since she'd been in that situation.  
  
Her sigh made Sara shift, the brunette said something into Grissom's neck. The man cracked open an eyelid, and said, "Good morning, Catherine."  
  
"Morning," she replied. "Sorry for the, uh, intrusion, but I called and knocked and no one answered."  
  
"Not a problem," he said, half groggy. Grissom glanced at Sara, moving one of his hands from her back to run over her hair. "Sara, we have company."  
  
"I noticed," the brunette grumbled into his neck.  
  
Grissom chuckled, and Catherine smiled with him. "Give us a minute?" he asked, and she nodded.  
  
"Just want to take you guys out for breakfast."  
  
A strange look passed over his face. "We haven't eaten since yesterday. Sounds good."  
  
"Great," she said, leaving the room, closing the door behind her.  
  
------  
  
They emerged a few minutes later, both of them had changed into clean clothes. Sara was looking really good, better than she had in a long time, better than she had last night. She looked brighter, and Grissom did too. It was a nice change.  
  
"Ready to go?" Catherine asked.  
  
He glanced at Sara, who nodded, reaching for his hand. They followed Catherine out the door and to a small restaurant nearby.  
  
-------  
  
"So, you look happy," Catherine fished for information over toast.  
  
Sara and Grissom glanced at each other, smiling. "Yeah," Sara admitted.  
  
"I mean, happier than yesterday." She sent the pair a pointed look.  
  
"So, do we tell her?" Sara asked, sighing.  
  
"She may never let up if we don't." Grissom took a bite of her peach scone, ignoring his own breakfast of two eggs.  
  
"If we tell her, everyone will know in about five minutes," she warned. "Don't eat my scone, please."  
  
Catherine watched the exchange with a smile. "Come on, you guys, I'm not that bad."  
  
"Yes, you are," they said in unison.  
  
"We're going to have to tell them eventually," Grissom pointed out.  
  
Sara sighed. "Fine, but you do it."  
  
"Okay," he said, grabbing her hand. "Catherine, Sara and I are. . ."  
  
"What? Moving? With child? Come on, don't hesitate."  
  
He sighed. "Okay. We're getting married."  
  
"What!" At Catherine's happy shriek, the other patrons glared at the group, and Sara and Grissom looked down at the floor with small smiles. "Sorry," she said more quietly. "Are you serious?"  
  
"Maybe," Sara said. "We haven't finalized anything yet." 


	14. chapter 14

"Hey, Scopie," Sara said, patting the golden retriever mix on the head as she took off her jacket and threw it on the couch. She bent down to greet the dog more fully, scratching behind her ears. In response, Scope (short for microscope) wagged her entire body, pressing up against her owner for more attention. Sara grinned at Scope, who was still a baby at eight months. "Where's Gris, Scopie?"  
  
At the sound of Grissom's name, Scope perked up. "Where's your guy, Scope?" Sara asked playfully. "Go find him!"  
  
The dog took off. She was only eight months old but her training was really sinking in. Grissom and Sara had gotten the puppy partially for companionship, but being the workaholics they both were, they had decided to train the dog to find evidence: blood stains that had been cleaned, people, clothing, etc. They had started out training her to find Grissom or Sara. . . depending on who was handling Scope.  
  
The puppy ran back to her, bumped Sara with her cold, wet puppy nose, and ran off again. Grissom emerged from his office, the room in the apartment farthest away from everything, followed closely by a bouncy Scope.  
  
"Hey, you're home," he smiled slightly, sadly. She had the feeling that something was wrong.  
  
"Hey," she smiled back, tamping down the thought. "I knew you were. Did you take Scope out yet?"  
  
He nodded, and added, "I fed her, too, so she'll need to go out again in an hour."  
  
"That's enough time to eat breakfast," she grinned, raising her eyebrows quickly.  
  
"What do you want?" Grissom seemed quiet.  
  
She looked him up and down, finally meeting his eyes. "I have no idea, but I have to kiss you or I'm going to faint."  
  
"Okay," he stuttered; he'd hardly gotten the words out before she'd planted one on him.  
  
"This 'no physical contact at work' policy is killing me," she explained as they pulled apart.  
  
Grissom just nodded, not saying anything, not meeting her eyes. "Grissom, what's wrong?" Sara asked, eyebrows knitting together in concern, disturbed by his attitude. "Come on, talk to me."  
  
He sighed heavily, and said, "Sara, sit down."  
  
Sara complied, the puzzled look still on her face as he retreated to his office without a word. Scope jumped up on the couch next to her, Sara rubbed her ears and told the puppy with honesty, "I'm worried about him, Scopie." The puppy licked her cheek.  
  
Grissom emerged with a case file in his hands, he moved Scope off the couch and sat down next to Sara, sighing again.  
  
"What is it, Gris?"  
  
He took out two pictures, one a morgue shot of Jerry Phillips, the other a man she thought she recognized. "Could you tell me, without a doubt, who abducted you?" Grissom asked.  
  
She took a good look at both photos, then pointed to Phillips. "That's him," Sara said. "Without a doubt. He's the guy I saw in the bathroom mirror, right before. Can't miss those eyes. But why do we care now? He's dead."  
  
Grissom fiddled with his ring, a nervous habit they had both developed in the last seven months. He twisted it around his ring finger with his thumb, which Sara did as well, especially when she was anxious about something. She watched him do it now, and wondered again what was going on. "Could you tell me who assaulted you, without a doubt?" he asked finally.  
  
Sara looked over the photos again, picked up the one of the unknown man, then put it down again. She did the same with the Phillips picture, then shook her head. "No. I can't say either man was responsible, but I don't really remember."  
  
"That's Gary Barnes," he said, pointing to the unknown. "I was talking to Tony Dodd today, and he was telling me that when Phillips confessed, he kept talking about Gary, and how Barnes wasn't going to let this go by. Tony sent me the transcript of the confession."  
  
"You think Phillips was a patsy for this guy Barnes?"  
  
"I looked into Phillips' record, mostly non-violent crimes. The worst thing he ever did was not paying a traffic ticket."  
  
"Maybe he was staying below the radar, so if he ever got caught they'd go easy on him. Like Ben Jennings."  
  
"Ben Jennings was innocent," he reminded her.  
  
"I know, but that was the brother's idea, remember?" Grissom nodded. "What about Barnes?"  
  
"This guy was bad, Sare." He noted that she was shaking. "Assault, rape, attempted murder. . .and Phillips' half-brother."  
  
"Phillips could confess to the assault because he was there, but Barnes did the damage," she realized. "Damn it!"  
  
"Barnes and Phillips co-owned the house in Georgia, but Phillips lived there. Barnes moved around a lot, but he was in San Francisco during the murders."  
  
"Barnes made Jerry follow me, abduct me, but that was it. Barnes. . ." She trailed off, getting progressively more upset. "I thought this was over," she choked.  
  
"We got the wrong brother again," he said.  
  
"There was never evidence that it was more than one guy!"  
  
"I don't think Barnes used Phillips until you," he told her.  
  
"Shit, I thought this was over!" she repeated, brown eyes tearing up.  
  
"Hey, hey, don't cry," Grissom said, wiping the tears from her face, taking her in his arms. "Sara, it's okay."  
  
"It is not okay, Gris. This bastard's still out there." She glared at him as a small smile came over his face. "What're you smiling at?"  
  
"You didn't let me finish," he chided. "He's in custody."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I took off early tonight, want to know why?"  
  
"You got a phone call, didn't you?"  
  
"Dodd called me," he agreed. "Apparently Barnes was shot during a bar fight. When they went through his stuff, and realized that he was Phillips' brother, they searched the place he was staying. Found another knife with his prints and your blood all over it."  
  
"Oh, wonderful," she muttered sarcastically, her eyes dried. "You know how long he's going to stay in custody? Not long."  
  
"We have evidence linking him to you. . . " "But I couldn't positively ID the man to save my life," she countered.  
  
"One piece of evidence is. . ."  
  
". . .worth more than ten eyewitnesses, I know. But the evidence isn't conclusive, it's circumstantial."  
  
"Your blood, his prints. . ."  
  
"Means nothing. Means he picked up the knife. Doesn't mean he did anything."  
  
"If we calculate the grip angle, we can determine how he held the weapon," he offered.  
  
"Grissom, when most people pick up a knife, they hold it in the same way as they would to cut someone. It's not definitive."  
  
"Why are you playing the devil's advocate?"  
  
"Because I don't want this guy going free because the evidence is crap!" Scope's ears pulled back at the sound of her owner yelling.  
  
"What about the San Francisco evidence? We can get that shipped here, run some tests, link him to those crimes, too."  
  
"Is he even charged with the murders in San Francisco?" Sara challenged.  
  
"He could be if we link the evidence," Grissom offered.  
  
She sighed, looked away from him, her face caught up in a scowl. "Is the evidence from Georgia coming?"  
  
"On its way," Grissom said. "I told Tony to ship it overnight when he called."  
  
"What about San Francisco?"  
  
"Also coming," he said. "Made the call to Kate right after I got off the phone with Tony."  
  
"Why did you bother asking me if it was already coming?" Sara said, turning back to him, her tone slightly accusatory.  
  
"Because even if you didn't want to review it-and I figured you would-I wanted to do it."  
  
"You know me too well," she said, a half-smile quirked on her face.  
  
"Well, we've only been married, what? Seven months? And we did live together for almost a year before that. And we were friends before that."  
  
She cringed slightly at the M word. "There has to be another word for 'married' that doesn't sound so. . .married."  
  
"Joined, united, wedded. . .?"  
  
". . .Cheesy?"  
  
Grissom nodded, gave her a smile. "You're still working through it."  
  
"I have days where I'm completely blown away that I'm hitched, you know? It's insane that I'm someone's wife." Sara shuddered. "And it's really creepy that I'm your wife, no offense."  
  
"None taken," he shrugged. "I know exactly what you mean. I woke up today, for example, and thought 'Oh, I'm a husband. Guess that means I have to take out the trash.'"  
  
"Grissom," she said, locking eyes with him, "I have no idea how your mind works. That made no sense."  
  
"I know," he said with a grin, stealing a kiss.  
  
"You love it when people can't figure you out, you big lug."  
  
"And you love trying to figure me out, don't you?"  
  
"I guess we're even then," she said, stealing a kiss of her own.  
  
"I guess," he replied, kissing her again.  
  
"The dog has to go out in," she checked her watch, leaning in to kiss him again, "fifteen minutes."  
  
"We really should finish talking about the case," he offered, kissing her back.  
  
"We should," she agreed.  
  
Scope's ears pulled back again as the bedroom door slammed shut. 


	15. chapter 15

"Hi, you son of a bitch," Sara greeted as she walked into the interrogation room where Gary Barnes was sitting, shackled to his seat. "Hot enough for you?" It was eighty degrees in the shade but dry. "How are you liking your trip to Las Vegas?"  
  
The crew-cut blond man sat staring stoically at her, refusing to answer. Grissom watched this from the other side of the observation glass, wondering again how wise it was to let her do this. Sara was this guy's victim, even if she didn't want to admit it, and generally speaking, victims were not allowed to interrogate their attackers. But she had insisted, insisted to the point where she had packed a bag and told him she was going to Catherine's until they'd figured it out.  
  
He'd given in almost immediately.  
  
Warrick and Nick teased him about being whipped, and yeah, he was. But whipped and with Sara was better than not whipped without her.  
  
Grissom decided that it wasn't so bad to have her questioning him. Besides, if anything went wrong, Brass was in there, along with Tony Dodd. Gary Barnes, you poor bastard, he thought, you're trapped in that room with a very angry victim, and two very angry cops. I'd pity you if I didn't hate you so much.  
  
"I'd answer her," Dodd drawled. "You owe her that much."  
  
"I don't owe that bitch anything," Barnes growled, his voice rough.  
  
Grissom turned away from the mirror as Dodd's fist landed with a crunch on Barnes' face. His new policy when it came to this case was: if I didn't see it, it didn't happen.  
  
"Don't call her a bitch again," Tony warned.  
  
Barnes snorted out blood. "Wait until I tell my lawyer," he coughed.  
  
Brass jumped in with, "Oh, your court-appointed defender? He won't be here for another hour."  
  
"A lot can happen in an hour," Sara told Barnes. "Fights break out in prison all the time. . .but you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? You're a decent guy, little temper problem but not so serious. . .until you mess with the wrong guy. What do we know? You were in lockup for the last, what? Forty minutes?" She shrugged, her voice taking on a tone Grissom had never heard before and never wanted to hear again. "A broken nose is not the worst that can happen in a prison brawl, remember that."  
  
"So, if you don't mind too much, Gary, you're going to answer her questions," Brass ordered.  
  
Barnes glared at the brunette, wiped away some of the blood with the back of his shackled hand. "Fine."  
  
"Gary," she started, leaning up against the table. "I think we're familiar enough with each other to cut through all this crap, so I only have one question. Be warned, it's in quite a few parts."  
  
"Shoot," he challenged.  
  
"Why'd you use your brother to get to me?" Her voice took on a hypnotic resonance, one that made Grissom turn back to the glass. When Barnes didn't answer, she smiled. "Come on, Gary. Jerry was there, I saw him."  
  
"Gary and Jerry," Brass interjected. "Your mom's original."  
  
Barnes failed to take the bait, so Sara moved on to her next question. "Ever been to San Francisco?"  
  
"City by the Bay," he shrugged. "Too foggy. I wasn't there long."  
  
"Long enough to kill five women."  
  
"That was Jer's gig, not mine," Barnes said.  
  
"We have DNA that says you were there, we have a ton of evidence that puts you in the killer seat, not your brother," Sara countered. "Why lie about it? You're only hurting yourself."  
  
He stared her down, not answering, so she continued. "How good did it feel to kill those girls, Gary? Bet it felt real nice, keeping them just alive enough to scream as you beat them, cut them, writing little messages in their backs. . .I can only imagine how good it was for you."  
  
Alarm bells were blaring in Grissom's head. Sara, no, he thought. Don't get into his head. Don't start feeling the way he felt. Grissom could only imagine the nightmares tonight, and thought hard about going into the room and taking her out before it got any worse.  
  
But his message was not getting through, and she continued, leaning closer into Barnes. "Picking out the perfect words for the note, making sure to tease us investigators just enough, all the while planning the next one. I bet it felt so nice to get back to Georgia after getting one in Vegas and finding that your brother had caught you another one." He voice was seductive almost, husky. She traced over her scar, nearly whispering, "You didn't have time to finish with me, so you left me a souvenir, Gary. Did you like putting that knife up against my cheek, knowing just how cold that blade was, knowing how hot it was going to be in a second? I bet you loved how I screamed when you slid that blade deep into my flesh. . ."  
  
Sara, no. It had become Grissom's new mantra.  
  
Barnes had closed his eyes, a smile playing on his lips. His tongue darted out, glancing over his smile. "You shrieked like a cat that's been stepped on," he said smoothly; a chill ran down Grissom's spine. "Calling out for Grissom," Barnes imitated her voice, "Grissom!"  
  
Sara's eyes were unreadable. "And then you carved me up. You wanted to start with the back, write your message while I was still able to feel every letter, every soft-sharp slide of the knife through my skin, all the way down to the muscle. . ."  
  
". . .It would have been incredible," he agreed, his eyes popping open to look at her. "I didn't recognize you without all the blood."  
  
"Too bad the cops came," she replied, voice nearly regretful. Their eyes had locked, the rest of the room invisible.  
  
"We could have had tons of fun," he replied.  
  
They were caught in each other, Grissom realized, unable to get out of the trap they had built. It seemed like they were both getting off on it, and he rushed to pull out his cell phone and called Brass. "Get her out of there," he ordered. "She's too involved."  
  
"Yeah, ok," Brass said absently, enthralled with the spectacle himself.  
  
"Jim, get her out of there now!"  
  
He watched as Brass touched Sara's arm, breaking her connection with Barnes. She blinked hard, shaking her head as she moved away from the table and out of the room. A moment later, Grissom heard the door click shut and turned, Sara was almost shaking, breathing hard. He sat her down and kneeled in front of her, she wouldn't meet his eyes.  
  
"Sara," he whispered, trying and failing to get her attention off of Barnes.  
  
"I don't know what happened in there, Gris," she said, staring at Barnes through the glass.  
  
"You messed up," he snapped, and finally her face turned away from the glass. She glowered at him, eyes furious at the insinuation.  
  
"I hardly think going in there and asking him some questions is messing up," she snapped back.  
  
"It is when you form that kind of mental bond with your suspect!" he yelled. "You were losing your hold on him, getting into him."  
  
"I was fine, Grissom! I was in control!"  
  
"You were in his head, Sara, and he was in yours. You were not in control."  
  
"I was in control!" she insisted, fury rising in her voice.  
  
"If you were in control, I never would've pulled you out," he told her. "So don't pull that 'I was in control' crap with me."  
  
Her jaw set, she snapped, "Then don't pull this 'I'm your superior, I can do what I want' crap with me!"  
  
Grissom stared at her furious face for a long silent moment, thinking, This is Sara, this is my wife, this is my friend, this is my co-worker. This is the woman I have promised to spend my life with, this is my world. She is not a suspect, she is upset, I am upset. This is Sara. He could hear Brass asking Barnes more questions, but he could only see Sara, could only hear her angry breathing. "I only pulled you out because I care about you and I don't want you getting hurt. I'm sorry if I've hurt you," he said finally.  
  
"You have," she told him, the anger fading from her voice. "When you don't trust me. . .when you question my ability to do my job objectively. . ."  
  
"I was scared," he admitted hesitantly, to himself as well as to Sara. "It had nothing to do with your competency at all. I was afraid that you were getting too close. I didn't want Barnes hurting you any more than he already has."  
  
"You know what hurts me the most, more than anything he could ever do to me?" When he shook his head, she continued, "When you are being just as much of an asshole as Barnes. I hate you when you're like that, and I don't want to hate you."  
  
"I don't want you to hate me," Grissom said. "I would never want you to hate me." 


	16. chapter 16

Sweat dripped into her eyes, burning, mixing with tears to run down her face. There was nothing like a punching bag to release the pain, and she realized as she punched it again that for once her body didn't hurt. Her knee wasn't sore, the phantom ache in her scar that had been troubling her since she'd walked into the interrogation room had disappeared as she took out her anger on the bag. Her body would be sore and tight tomorrow, but right now she felt like light, like a perfect machine.  
  
This was her diversion. This was her escape. Physical exercise, preferably alone, was the only thing that worked to get her mind off the job. But, as she burned away the emotions of the day, Sara's mind cleared, and on more than one occasion, she'd solved a case while beating up the bag.  
  
Boxing was her favorite 'alone' diversion. In the months prior to this Barnes debacle, she'd picked up the sport. . .but it wasn't the only thing she did. She'd been known to pound the pavement, literally, jogging for hours until she was near collapse. After a particularly tough case, she'd gone to the shooting range and emptied five clips into a cardboard target. Target practice was the only thing she could do for months after Barnes had attacked her, and she still wasn't allowed to run, the impact on her injured knee was too high. Boxing was the latest addition to the list of okayed sports. . .and up until very recently, she hadn't been able to bob and weave like she wanted to.  
  
Of course, boxing wasn't her favorite physical diversion, but her favorite required Grissom. . . and she was so angry she didn't want to see him.  
  
The best thing about boxing or jogging was that no one could tell if you were crying through the sweat. This had come in handy a dozen times when she was so frustrated or upset she had to cry, but didn't want anyone to know.  
  
Like today. With each blow her fists delivered, she chanted, "Damn him." Punch. "Damn you, Barnes." Punch. "Damn you, Phillips." Punch. "Damn you, Grissom."  
  
Barnes was damned for being the sick, evil son-of-a-bitch he was, for cutting her up and for taking away what she had deemed normal. Phillips was damned for being the weak little brother who delivered her to evil. And Grissom. . .Grissom was damned for making her feel weak, like a victim. Grissom was damned for being Grissom. Grissom was damned because he had shown a weakness, because his façade had cracked, because when he did this he left her feeling less confident. She damned Grissom because she loved him, depended on him, needed him, and she hated being anything less than self-sufficient.  
  
"Sara." Speaking of the devil. . .His voice cut through her inner monologue, but she refused to stop, hitting the bag harder, hitting it with such force that she had to move out of the way as it swung back at her.  
  
Grissom watched her with concern. It was her style to push herself to the limit, to try to push herself past the limit, to the point of collapse. If she slowed down, she hadn't tried hard enough. . .but she had never tried slowing down. She did everything at a hundred-and-ten percent, she didn't know how not to. She had been extremely resentful of her injuries, they had slowed her down, and now she was doing double the work to make up for it.  
  
"Sara," he tried again. She stopped, turned, breathing hard, hair plastered to her face, glared at him, and started working the bag again.  
  
Damn her, she was so stubborn. But, he noted with interest, the blows were coming slower and slower, her shoulders were shaking more and more, she was near collapse. He wondered when she had eaten last.  
  
One missed swing at the bag planted her firmly on the mat, and he had his arms around her sweaty waist before she could get up and start again. "Sara, no."  
  
"Get off of me, let me go, let me go," she chanted, struggling to get free. "Barnes, let me go, let me go, please. Grissom, let me go."  
  
She was hitting him now, not very hard, twisting and turning to get out of his grasp. Grissom registered briefly that she had called him Barnes.  
  
"Get off, get off, damn it, let me go!" She turned in his arms to look him in the eye, and the pleading look in her eyes nearly broke his heart. "Grissom, please," she begged, her voice breaking on the plea.  
  
"No," he said. "You have to stop, Sara. Don't kill yourself trying to kill him and what he did to you. You have to let it go."  
  
"How can I let it go when I'm reminded every day?" she asked; her breaking voice and red eyes told him she was on the verge of tears. "How can I let it go when every time I look in a mirror, I see what he did to me? You always have an answer, Grissom, so tell me how to let it go when the evidence is in plain sight."  
  
Grissom became keenly aware of her taut muscles under his hands. She had really come back from her injuries, in fact, she had gone beyond the level of fitness she had been at before Barnes.  
  
"Sara, look at yourself," he commanded, turning her around towards a mirror- lined wall, kept his hands on her shoulders just in case she decided to duck out. . .even though he was pretty sure she was too tired to struggle anymore. "You want to talk about evidence in plain sight? Show me. What evidence?"  
  
"These scars," she said, pointing at her face and at the appendectomy scar on her belly. "My knee."  
  
"So?" he questioned.  
  
"So, Barnes gave those to me."  
  
"Barnes did an appendectomy? I don't think so," Grissom challenged. Sara, come on, get the point.  
  
"Well, no, but he caused me to have one. And he did cut my face, and he did do the damage to my knee."  
  
"Okay, what else?"  
  
Sara stared at her image for a long time. "That's it," she said finally.  
  
"That's it? You're not letting yourself move on over two pieces of evidence? Come on, I taught you better than that. You can't convict someone on two pieces of evidence."  
  
"What do you want me to say, Gris?" Sara had grown exasperated with his questioning, wishing he would get to the point and leave her alone.  
  
"I want you to take another look." He steered her back to the mirror. "What's positive?"  
  
"I am not making a list of the good and the bad, Grissom." "I'm not asking you to. Look at yourself. What's good?"  
  
"You are not a therapist, Grissom. Stop acting like one."  
  
"You're right, I'm not," he smiled. "I'm your husband, which means I care. And I'm your boss, which means you do what I tell you. . .at least at work," he added quickly at her glare. "Please, just do it."  
  
"Fine," she sighed, looking herself over again. What good had come out of her predicament? Grissom, for starters, even though he was acting like an ass. She had better muscle tone than she had in years. She could empathize with victims more now, which would help her do her job. . .Grissom wouldn't like a more empathetic Sara, he already thought she was bad enough.  
  
"Well?" he asked. "You can trust me, I'm not going to laugh or criticize your answer."  
  
"I know I can trust you," Sara replied. "I guess what's good is that I slowed down a lot, learned my limits. I'm more in shape, even though I couldn't do very much physical activity. I understand where I stand, what I should do or say."  
  
"Anything else?"  
  
"I got you," she said, a smile crossed her face for the first time in hours. "That's good."  
  
"I certainly think so," he said, kissing her neck. Grissom's nose wrinkled in mock-disgust. "Sweetheart, you smell."  
  
"Oh, thanks," she teased. "Did you just call me 'sweetheart'? Where did that come from?"  
  
"It slipped," he shrugged. "Not one for terms of endearment?"  
  
Sara shook her head. "Not from you, Mr. Scientist."  
  
"Yeah, well, Mr. Scientist thinks Mrs. Scientist ought to go take a shower so her colleagues can work with her tonight."  
  
She shot him a withering look. "I am not that bad."  
  
"People never smell as bad to themselves as they do to others, keep that in mind."  
  
"Telling your wife she smells puts you on the couch tonight, keep that in mind," she riposted with a small smile.  
  
With one eyebrow raised, he replied, "As your boss, I'm telling you to go shower. Don't argue with me."  
  
"Fine," she shot back with a grin.  
  
--------  
  
"You are God, anyone ever tell you that?" Sara moaned as Grissom massaged her right foot.  
  
Grissom shrugged. "Occasionally." She was stretched out on the couch, tendrils of wet hair falling in her face, brown eyes shut as he kneaded her arch between his thumbs. He sat facing her, her legs in his lap. The foot massage was her reward for showering; she had tricked him into it. . .but he didn't mind.  
  
"That feels incredible," she moaned again, as the tension flowed from her body. "You're the only person who could ever get near my feet, you know? Generally speaking, it tickles like a feather up your nose, but this? Not tickling at all."  
  
"Well," Grissom said, reaching for her ribs, "I can remedy that."  
  
Sara shrieked and squirmed under his unrelenting hands. "Grissom, stop! Baby, please!"  
  
"Who's using terms of endearment now?" he asked as he found himself hovering over her on the couch. Grissom leaned in to kiss her laughing mouth, reveling in the moment.  
  
"Oh, God. Will you two get a room?" Catherine's voice cut through the atmosphere, causing the pair to separate.  
  
"What are they up to now?" Nick asked from the doorway. Catherine flung a hand over his eyes, as if he were a young child whose parent was guarding him from the sight. "Hey!"  
  
"Don't look, Nicky. God knows I don't want to. I thought you two had a rule about that kind of thing."  
  
Grissom got off of the couch, with a "We do," leaving Sara spread out and still laughing. She moved into a sitting position, and reached for her socks, but one was missing. "Gris, my sock?"  
  
Her husband looked up from his perusal of the fridge with a quizzical expression. "Your sock?"  
  
"Check your pockets," Nick suggested, his eyes still covered by Catherine's hand.  
  
Grissom did, finding Sara's sock in his coat pocket. He tossed it to her, she thanked him with a grin, and as she slipped it over her foot, she said, "I think you can move your hand now, Catherine."  
  
"You're fully clothed?" Nick asked, faking disappointment.  
  
Grissom glared. "That's my wife you're talking about, Nicky."  
  
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, consenting adults," Catherine griped. "Doesn't mean we want to see anything."  
  
"PDA's are so wrong," Nick added.  
  
Grissom looked from Nick to Catherine to Sara, clearly puzzled by the acronym. Sara just smiled at him, amused by his lack of understanding. "PDA's?" he asked.  
  
"Public displays of affection," Sara explained. "Generally frowned upon by the under-twelve set."  
  
"And the over-twenty set," Catherine added. "Gross."  
  
Grissom stepped back from himself and the conversation for just a moment, watched Sara bantering with Nick, laughing, smiling. She was back to herself. And in that moment, as she turned to him with brown eyes shining, he realized she had taught him more than he had ever taught her.  
  
All his life, Grissom had chased death. Starting with the dissections of dead animals as a child, continuing through high school and college to now, his life revolved around what death left behind. He was perpetually following death. And Sara had joined him, not only chasing death, but justice as well. She had added revenge to her list after the Barnes ordeal.  
  
He hated that she was chasing all of these negative things, had requested just hours ago that she let it go, but he had not realized the most important thing. Sara, just now, had let it go. And Sara had never chased death, anger, justice, revenge.  
  
All of her responses to crimes, and her response to Barnes, and the way she did her job.these things were not negative like he had feared. Her enthusiasm and drive were not because of what he thought she chased, but because of what she did chase, had always chased.  
  
Oh, no, Sara had never chased death or justice, revenge and anger. He didn't, either. No time.  
  
They were too busy to chase these things.  
  
They were too busy chasing life.  
  
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Well, well, the end. Hope you enjoyed it! 


End file.
